Meeting Mary
by Snommis
Summary: Sherlock gets himself hospitalised, John meets Mary and more than one case turns out to be depressingly simple. Contains some references to several ACD stories, among these 'The Sign of the Four'. No one will gain a wife from this, though.
1. Only A Fool Argues With His Doctor

**Can also be found on AO3!**

**Disclaimer: **Don't own any of it. Simple as that.

**A/N: **Firstly, this little story is set five years after _The Reichenbach Fall _or two years after Sherlock returned (I'm going with ACD's three years of absence).

Secondly, this was all pretty much typed up and published before the whole Series 3 spoiler-picture-thing and is in no way a response or a reaction to that. This is merely the product of something that popped into my head back when I toyed with (and very firmly rejected) the idea of writing a sequel to my other story, 'England'.

Lastly, nothing is new under the sun. It has, in all likelihood, been done before. In fact I feel I should warn about clichés. Just listen: Sherlock gets sick. Bees. Ungodly amounts of tea. Experiments. Cases. Inept police officers. Mycroft showing up at just the right time, being interfering.

Beyond that I have no idea what this actually _is_.

Don't tell me I didn't tell you.

* * *

_Who is he that would become my follower?_

_Who would sign himself a candidate for my affections?_

_The way is suspicious, the result uncertain, perhaps destructive,_

_You would have to give up all else, I alone would expect to be your sole and exclusive standard,_

_Your novitiate would even then be long and exhausting,_

_The whole past theory of your life and all conformity to the lives around you would have to be abandon'd,_

_Therefor release me now before troubling yourself any further, let go your hand from my shoulders,_

_Put me down and depart on your way._

- _Walt Whitman_

* * *

**October Part 1**

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had never really spared much thought to the concept of getting older. He had most certainly never contemplated turning forty and had, if he were being honest, not entirely expected that he would.

As it was, Sherlock was now certain that he would not. It was quite simply not possible to feel so utterly horrible and survive it.

And John had left him to suffer all alone. As if grocery shopping was even remotely important. He needed someone to distract him, to take it out on, to feel sorry for him and bring him tea. Could John not see that it was completely unacceptable to leave him like that?

The only thing that seemed to even remotely help was staying very still in his darkened room, breathing as shallowly as possible and, above all, keeping his eyes _shut_. Shut and unmoving.

He had no reliable sense of time but it felt like hours had passed when the faint rustling of keys made its way up to him.

The front door opened and closed and Sherlock's eyes reflexively moved towards the sound, sending a flash of pain through his head. It was terrible.

Steps on the stairs. John's steps. Finally.

More sounds followed of John entering the flat, walking to the kitchen and placing bags on the counter.

"_John!_" Sherlock cringed at the sound of his own voice. He had forgotten just how sensitive he was to noise.

The rustling of plastic bags stopped and footsteps made their way towards him, the door to his bedroom opening almost soundlessly.

"Feeling any better?" Thankfully (of course) John remembered to keep his voice low.

"My brain hurts." That was not even entirely true. _Everything_ hurt. And had the wrong temperature and was absolutely disgusting.

John sighed. The sound was entirely too amused for Sherlock's liking. Still, the benefits of keeping his eyes shut far outweighed any glare he wanted to send in John's direction.

Feet moving closer. "It's not your brain, Sherlock. It's your head. You see, this is what you get when you ignore my advice."

"You never said this would happen," he countered, only to be tortured with _yet another_ coughing fit. It felt as if his head was going to explode.

"And you couldn't predict that your cold might turn into the flu, even though half of London is battling it at the moment?" John inquired as soon as Sherlock could breathe again.

"Just make it go away. More pills."

"I'm sorry, but you can't have more paracetamol for another hour."

"Why not?" Not fair. They helped. Marginally, but still.

"Because I'm already giving you double the allowed dosage. As thin as you are, you would think those things were more effective… alarmingly high resilience to drugs aside…" John sighed. Tired, this time. "Have you at least been drinking?"

_Look at the pitcher. It's empty is it not?_

Clinking of glass. "Ah. Good. I'll get you some more. You want anything else? Tea? Ice cream? Actual food?"

"Sleeping pills. Or morphine. Lots of morphine."

"Oh, for the –" John exclaimed before remembering not to raise his voice. "Sherlock, for the last time, you can't just knock yourself out on sedatives and wake up all better."

"Stupid."

"Yes, you are." There it was again, the _amusement_. It was entirely inappropriate.

_I'll cough on you yet. See if I don't. _

"And stop sulking, you great child. A few days in bed, with a fever is not the end of the world. Might even do you a bit of good to get some rest after that last case."

The pure idiocy and unfairness of that statement sent him into a violent coughing fit that left his head throbbing. Sherlock found that he would not wish his current misery on even his worst enemy.

On second thought, it _would_ make him feel a great deal better if Mycroft got sick as well.

"I'll be right back."

And John was, indeed, right back.

"Can you sit up?"

"Of course I can sit up."

"Well, excuse me, mister opening-my-eyes-is-too-much-an-effort."

"It _hurts_."

"Mmh. I'm going to take your temperature, all right?"

"Again?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Again."

He sat still as the instrument was stuck into his ear, almost managing not to react as the _beep_ sent another flash of pain through his head.

"It's gone up again… It shouldn't have. It really shouldn't," John mumbled, sounding lost in thought. One hand came to rest against his forehead while another grasped his wrist.

"I'll be right back," John said again. Only this time he sounded rather distracted. That finally merited opening his eyes and he followed John's retreating silhouette suspiciously.

John returned swiftly with a stethoscope. At least there did not seem to be more 'swabbing' on the horizon. Small mercies, Sherlock thought as his clammy t-shirt was moved out of the way and cool metal pressed against his chest.

"Breathe in," John instructed. The stethoscope was moved to the other side of his chest. "And again."

The procedure was repeated with the stethoscope against his back and resulted in yet another coughing fit. It was disgusting.

"Well, your lungs seem to be fine."

"Oh, joy."

John gave him a stern look. "I'll get you something to eat."

The Universe was conspiring against him. Sherlock was sure of it.

* * *

"Eat the soup or I will have you committed."

Sherlock opened his eyes again. The bowl was still held out towards him. John was still sitting on the edge of his bed. Ignoring it was clearly not going to make it go away. "No hospitals. You agreed."

"Under the conditions that you don't get worse and do as I say while you're sick."

The soup looked like something with chicken. How predictable. "I'm not hungry."

"That's completely irrelevant. You've been in bed for three days and I _know_ you didn't eat anything besides that bag of crisps the week before that."

"There was –"

"A case, I know. I was there, getting my molar cracked, remember? Now eat."

"_I am not hungry_."

John leant a little closer, eyebrows rising ominously towards his hairline. "Two words, Sherlock: Nasogastric tube."

"I don't think I particularly like you."

"It's this or the hospital. Mind you, if your fever increases much more it's the hospital regardless," John continued threatening as he pushed the bowl insistently at him. It was a lost cause.

John remained at his bedside, staring off into thin air as he ate. It took a great deal of effort and focus to get the soup down without coughing, but Sherlock still noticed that John's shoulders were tense.

"You worry too much. People get influenza all the time."

"You're not people," John retorted, no change in his blank expression.

"Doesn't mean I can't fall ill."

As predicted that brought a small smile to John's face. "Is the great Sherlock Holmes admitting that he's only human? A sign of the apocalypse, surely."

"Hilarious," he snapped, thrusting the bowl back towards John.

"You want anything else?"

"_No_."

Sherlock waited until he heard the water running in the kitchen before he turned over and coughed violently into his pillow. He only managed to keep the soup down through sheer force of will.

His head felt as if it was burning up from the inside of his skull. He was freezing. How contrary.

Wasn't it supposed to get better instead of worse?

* * *

Darkness consumes everything and he is falling, endlessly.

Until he is not. The darkness is the same, but solid now under his feet. There is a patch of light straight ahead. He walks closer and finds a perfectly lit square in the middle of the darkness, warded off with police tape. The harsh, fluorescent light has no source. It's just there, highlighting the body lying flat on its back at the centre of the square. It feels like knives to his eyes.

Sherlock knows who the body is even before he ducks under the police tape and walks closer. He squats down besides it and takes in the familiar face, the artificial light making the features look as if they have been carved out of wax.

Around him the space is endless and dark. It swallows everything but John's illuminated body.

He reaches out, determined to shake John awake. Being alone in the heavy darkness is frightening.

John's head lolls to the side as Sherlock grasps his shoulder. There is a bullet wound in his temple. Sherlock immediately lets go and his hand comes back drenched in blood.

No. _No, no, no. _

It is cold. Sherlock can see the breath leave him in white puffs of air. It is so very cold.

He reaches out again, carefully, to touch John's pale cheek but blood appears from underneath his palm, making John's skin crimson. He jerks back, moving away until he collides with a solid form. Twirling around, he is standing very close to Moriarty's hollow, smiling face.

No. Not here. Not again. Not John.

Suddenly they are walking down a long aisle with row after row of shelves. Above and around them there is only darkness and on the shelves are large glass jars with human heads floating in embalming fluid. Every step is bringing him further away from John's dead body.

Moriarty stops walking and John is alive. John is walking towards them and he is alive. Moriarty smiles again and scratches his temple with a gun.

He wants to walk towards John, wants to step between John and Moriarty, wants to shout and tell John to run but he can't move and can't speak.

All the severed heads are people and they are breaking free of their jars.

Everything becomes brighter and noisier as the mass of people approach. Their features are blurred and they swallow up John, push him away and make him become lost in the sea of people.

Everything becomes painfully sharp and he is standing alone on Piccadilly Circus in a sea of faceless people. The sun is cold and the black cabs and red buses are loud. It is overwhelming. It is too much.

And Sherlock remembers. He remembers that John is lying dead on the floor in the unending darkness. He remembers that John does not exist. He remembers why his childhood home is always cold and why he resents his family as he grows up at icy boarding schools and the hallowed, frosty halls of Cambridge.

He remembers how cocaine not only takes away the boredom but also makes the cold fade. It leaves behind only numbness and makes the fact that John does not and will never exist cease to matter. It is no longer of any consequence and he remembers to remind himself that it is pathetic and weak to care that John does not exist.

Standing in the freezing light of Piccadilly Circus he convinces himself that he does not care that the real world could never hold a John. It is nothing but a fanciful construction of a long forgotten, stupid child. A weakness to avoid. To rise above and beyond.

Sherlock breathes in the cold and relishes in it. Easy. Simple.

But then the faceless people stop and the traffic quiets and Moriarty is back, holding a gun against the temple of a kneeling person. And Sherlock knows exactly who it is.

Warm blue eyes are unafraid and unapologetic. They see everything he tries most to hide and he can't recall why he ever bothered with the masquerade in the first place.

Please. Please, no.

Moriarty smiles and pulls the trigger.

* * *

It was freezing. _He_ was freezing. But it had been a nightmare. Just a silly nightmare, Sherlock was sure of it. The fact that he was clenching his bedcovers was proof of that.

But the cold was real. Maybe it was hypothermia? Why would he have hypothermia? If he was having hypothermia why wasn't John doing something about it?

Sherlock tried to remember whether or not he had fallen into the Thames recently. Maybe he _was_ in the Thames? No. Bedcovers. Thinking hurt.

"Jesus. You're burning." The sudden noise took him completely by surprise, made his aching muscles cringe.

And the voice was wrong. There was no burning except against his forehead. "Cold."

"All right, that's it. We're going," the voice spoke again. The very real, very familiar voice.

"John?"

"I'll be right back."

"Why are you always leaving?" Why was he always leaving?

"I won't be a minute."

Sherlock was certain that a minute used to be shorter when he finally heard the approaching steps of shoes. John's steps in John's shoes. Very distinctive sound. Memorised.

The ground (no, bed) jostled and something very warm and solid surrounded him, pulled him up and forward. "Come on, Sherlock. You need to drink this. Come on, it's just water."

"What's… happening?"

"We're going to the hospital. "

"No. Promised."

"I'm sorry, but you're going to have to."

"Why?"

"Trust me."

"Don't be stupid." He began coughing, blinding white bolts of light flashing across his eyelids. Somewhere, in the back of the overheated mush that had once been his brain, Sherlock realised that whatever it was that was happening, it was slightly excessive for a case of the flu.

"He's right through here." Mrs Hudson? Why had John dragged Mrs Hudson into it? Was the entire world to know that his own damn body was betraying him?

"Oh, my. Dear God."

"It's all right, Mrs Hudson. He looks a lot worse than he is."

"Oh, poor Sherlock." Finally some compassion. Wasn't John supposed to be good at that? Instead, all he got were amused sighs. It was unfair.

"I'll call you in the morning, Mrs Hudson. No need to stay up."

The ground jostled again, worse this time. If everyone would just leave him alone, perhaps everything would stop moving and he wouldn't feel so horrible.

* * *

**oOo**

* * *

"John?"

"I'm right here," he repeated once more.

Despite the steady flow of saltwater, promethazine and dextromethorphan trickling through his IV, Sherlock constantly woke up. He never fully regained consciousness, but was lucid enough to hear him.

John sighed, settling further back in the surprisingly comfortable armchair in the private suite of The Princess Grace Hospital, which, ironically, was literally in hobbling distance from Baker Street.

It had been somewhat of a hassle getting to this point, where Sherlock was actually _in_ the hospital. At first the ambulance had simply set calmly off in the direction of the hospital that the system on board told them to go to (_Everything runs wirelessly these days. It's amazing_), when the system changed 'instructions'. Mycroft's doing, of course. Or rather, his people's doing, seeing as how the man himself was busy with something, somewhere abroad.

As much as John believed in the NHS he had to admit that an ill Sherlock Holmes in a shared sick room in a hospital stretched almost beyond its capacities due to the wave of influenza washing over the entire city was an experience he could do without.

"John?"

"I'm here."

"John?" Sherlock repeated more insistently, showing no sign of having heard him.

He stood up and walked over to Sherlock's side. "Can you hear me, Sherlock?"

"John? Where… _John?_" and then, in a very small, trembling voice, "Mycroft?"

"Sherlock, I'm right here. Do you hear me? It's all right. Everything is all right." He reached out, holding onto Sherlock's tense shoulder, rubbing soothing circles against it.

Without warning his arm was yanked forward with surprising strength. Sherlock's eyes were suddenly wide open, hazy with fever.

"Don't… go. Please." Fear. John realised it was fear that made Sherlock's voice tremble.

"I'm not going anywhere. It's all right."

Sherlock kept pulling at him, fingers twisting in his jumper sleeve until he was leaning awkwardly over the bed. For a sick, only partially conscious, man, Sherlock Holmes was incredibly strong.

"Stay." The request was accompanied by another forceful tuck that made his knees slam against the metal frame of the bed.

"Sherlock, you need to –"

"Don't go."

John would not have been able to explain why, even if someone had paid him to do so but the second time those two words were uttered something stilled and clicked in his mind. Suddenly the _only_ possible course of action was to clumsily kick off his shoes, crawl into the starched hospital bed and hold onto his friend.

Sherlock instantly curled up against his side, head resting warm and heavy on his shoulder.

* * *

"I used to make you up."

"Make me up?"

"As a child," Sherlock slurred on. John was pretty sure Sherlock was still not actually conscious. Not entirely, anyway. "I used to imagine... who understood, someone who…"

"Who what?"

"Stupid… Why are you here?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your presence… makes no difference."

"I suppose not, but it's nice having someone around when you're not well."

"How do you know?" Sherlock's muffled voice was full of something very close to wonder, as if John had just solved an entire case by himself. He wanted to smile at the silly question, but the fact that it was even asked in the first place tugged at him in a way far closer to pain than amusement.

He was in for a long night.

* * *

"_Please don't."_ Sherlock protested, turning his face further into his shoulder. "No. I'm not… Please don't."

"Shh. Sherlock."

"I promise. I promise I'll try… I can... be better... Please…"

He sounded so young, so frail. John tightened his hold around Sherlock's overheated frame.

"Shh. It's all right. Sherlock, it's all right. It's just a dream."

"John?"

"Yes. I'm here. I'm right here."

"John."

"I'm here," he kept reassuring; stroking Sherlock's back in what he hoped came across as a soothing gesture. "I'm here."

A ragged breath escaped and caught in Sherlock's throat, followed by several more. It took John quite a while to process the fact that Sherlock – now in the process of curling into a surprisingly small ball against his side – was crying. Tears even warmer than his fever-struck body were soaking through his shirt.

_What the hell is happening?_

A great shudder ran through Sherlock's body, his face now completely buried in the crook John's arm. A fist landed heavily on his chest.

"I can't… I _can't_. No more. No more." It was a desperate groan; the sound of someone pushed beyond the end of their rope. John was at a loss for what to say or do, but tried his best to get through to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? You're at the hospital. You're safe, all right? Nothing is going to happen to you. I promise."

Sherlock curled up further, stabbing him painfully in the stomach with a sharp knee. "It _hurts_."

John knew instantly, from Sherlock's tone, that they were not talking about his illness. It was not the doctor in him that was needed in that moment. He still had to ask. "What hurts? Can you tell me?"

"I c-can't go back." The words were far too close to a sob for comfort.

He was now officially scared, alarm seeping through to his voice despite his best efforts. "Go back to what?"

The shuddery breaths made Sherlock's body heave and tremble. "_John._"

"It's all right. It's all right. I promise."

Not for the first time John was left to contemplate exactly what Sherlock's past had been like and why doing so hurt so damn much.

* * *

A slurring sound rumbled against his chest. It sounded vaguely like his name.

"I'm here."

A few minutes passed in silence before Sherlock spoke again. "You're still here."

"Of course."

"Of course…" Sherlock repeated almost unintelligibly. "Do you love me?"

"I…" That was unexpected, John thought, his hand momentarily stilling on Sherlock's back in surprise. "Yes. I do. Of course I do."

Sherlock made a small, humming noise that vibrated against him. It sounded almost pleased. "Despite… everything? What I am?"

"_Because _of everything you are."

"You must be mad," Sherlock declared drowsily, but very firmly.

"Maybe," he agreed, letting one hand rest against the back of Sherlock's head.

* * *

"Oh, no, no. No need to get up," the night nurse whispered. "I'm just going to give him more fluid and take his temperature."

John very firmly told himself that he refused to feel self-conscious and supressed the urge to spew out a stuttering, pointless explanation that would not be believed either way. It was not as if it really mattered what perfect strangers thought anyway.

"His fever seems to have broken," the nurse said quietly, showing the thermometer to him.

Perhaps it had been an overreaction, dragging Sherlock to the hospital?

* * *

Without warning Sherlock stopped breathing and sat up as if electrocuted. His eyes were incredibly aware as he quickly took in the room. "Where am I?"

"Hospital. You've been here just short of ten hours."

"Why?" Sherlock demanded, inspecting the IV attached to his hand before whipping his head back around towards him. "What are you doing in my bed?"

"This was your idea."

His brow furrowed slightly. "It was? I don't remember that."

"I imagine not. You were having fever dreams."

"I was?"

"Yes. If you let go of my arm I can get up – give you more space."

"What? Oh, of course." Sherlock let go with another one of those sharp, jerking movements.

John climbed out of the bed, stretching his back.

He noticed that Sherlock sat slightly too rigidly, as if he was waiting for something unpleasant or felt self-conscious about something. John could not help but sigh a little in exasperation. Sherlock bloody Holmes and his pathological aversion to showing weakness.

"It's just me, Sherlock. You can trust me with this. You know you can."

Sherlock visibly relaxed and eventually met his eyes calmly, if somewhat reluctantly. "I know."

"Then stop being stupid about it."

"I'm not stupid."

"Yes, you are."

The, no doubt cutting, retort to that comment was swallowed by a violent coughing fit that put Sherlock back in a horizontal position, where he tried to smother himself in his pillow.

"I _hate_ this."

"Yes, well, but look on the bright side."

Sherlock turned his head sideways and glared viciously. The _fuck you_ was almost audible.

"What? Your fever's gone down considerably. That's a good sign, you know."

Sherlock coughed, very deliberately, John was sure, in his direction. It made him laugh out loud.

* * *

"The worst seems to be behind you, Mr Holmes," Sherlock's assigned doctor declared merrily at morning rounds. Sherlock himself just continued to scowl, arms crossed very firmly over his chest.

"I can leave?"

"Not quite yet," doctor Greengrass amended, blindingly bright smile never dimming. "We would like to keep you under observation the next twenty-four hours."

"John can do that," Sherlock immediately countered.

Greengrass faltered slightly. "While I'm certain that your… eh…"

"_John_," Sherlock enunciated slowly, giving the poor doctor the look of hopeless incredulity he usually reserved for Anderson, before John had the chance to say anything.

The doctor cleared his throat, the annoyingly blinding smile back in place. "Yes, well, the point, Mr Holmes, is that we'd like to keep you until we're sure your fever is under control."

"You need to stay, Sherlock," John quickly seconded when Sherlock opened his mouth to argue the point further.

And almost as if to prove them right Sherlock dissolved into a vicious coughing fit that left him shivering and white as a sheet.

* * *

As promised, John called Mrs Hudson to let her know that everything was all right and that, no, she should not come by and expose herself to further risk of catching Sherlock's rather vicious flu.

Needless to say Mrs Hudson ignored him – what was the point even in being a doctor? – and showed up less than an hour later, thermos full of tea and enough biscuits to give half the hospital a sugar rush.

Sherlock bathed almost childishly in their landlady's endless commiseration and sympathy and John took that as his chance at a few hours back home. If he was very lucky he might even have time for a short nap.

* * *

The improvement in Sherlock's condition lasted a little more than three hours. It had been just enough time for John to get that much-needed nap, a warm meal and a shower.

He was just doing up the last button of his shirt when his phone announced an incoming text.

_You are needed at the hospital. _

_A car is waiting. I will join you later. _

_MH_

John did not even bother to send a reply, demanding to know what was going on, but simply threw on a jumper in lieu of outerwear and grabbed the bag he had packed and hurried down to the sleek car already waiting on the curb to take him on what was quite possibly the shortest trip of his life.

He had only barely made it inside the pristine hospital before a young man in a white-coat accosted him.

"Doctor John Watson?"

"Yes?"

"Doctor Jansen," the man introduced himself. "I'm afraid I have some slightly bad news."

_How bad? _"Bad news?"

"Mr Holmes started throwing up shortly after lunch was served and had trouble sitting up. He also complained about pain in his head and neck. I was alerted to the situation and made the decision to get him checked for meningitis."

_What? _"Meningitis?"

"He's had a lumbar puncture done and we've put him on antibiotics, just in case."

"How – How sure are you?"

"Until we get the test results I can't say. The throwing up might just be because of the coughing but I felt it better to be safe than sorry."

"Of course. And when – " he took a single, steadying breath and clasped his hands together behind his back, forcing all stress and confusion and worry to the recesses of his mind. "When do you have the results?"

"No more than an hour or two, hopefully. Now, there is one bright spot and that's the fact that we already checked for bacterial infection when he was first committed."

John nodded. He remembered that. "There was none."

"Exactly. I won't completely rule out that we've missed a secondary infection but it's extremely unlikely to be bacterial. If he does have it, it's going to be viral."

John could relax again. Dying or sustaining permanent damage from viral meningitis was exceedingly uncommon. Bacterial, however… especially when left undetected and untreated – well, he was just not going to think about that until absolutely necessary.

"Good. That's very good."

"It most certainly is," doctor Jansen agreed. "A Mycroft Holmes has also been contacted. He was listed as Mr Holmes' emergency contact."

"Yes, it's his brother."

"He was very insistent that you were informed of the full situation."

John forced himself to give the young doctor an apologetic smile. "I'm sure he was."

"Oh, and Mr Holmes has been moved – room 344 – until further notice. If you continue straight ahead and then take the first left you'll be right at the lifts."

"All right. Thank you."

Despite his best efforts, John's false calm failed him once he reached the door to room 344. Meningitis. He slumped against the wall beside the door, trying and failing to regain his focus.

Meningitis. The symptoms flashed across his mind with blinding speed. The fever. The extreme sensitivity to light and sound. The stiffness of his neck. And now throwing up.

Meningitis was right up there along with contusions, brain tumours and cerebral haemorrhages – all things that Sherlock was simply_ not allowed to get_.

Viral. It was not going to be bacterial. And even if it was, the prognosis was not _that_ bad. Sherlock _would not_ be among the roughly fifteen percent who died after contracting bacterial meningitis. He _would not_. John kept repeating that to himself like a mantra.

"Are you all right?"

John looked up to find a woman in her early thirties with clear, blue eyes looking at him worriedly.

"Sorry?"

"You look a bit grey," she elaborated, taking a small step towards him.

"I'm fine."

"People here are rarely fine."

"It's… I'm fine," he repeated, straightening back up completely.

Understanding flashed over the unknown woman's face. "You're not the patient."

"No. It's my friend."

"Bad news?"

"It's too early to say."

"Ah… well, I hope everything's going to be fine." She smiled kindly before making her way towards the elevators.

"Thanks."

John took a last, steadying breath and opened the door. Sherlock was sleeping, looking uncharacteristically peaceful. The hefty mixture of drugs now coursing through his system seemed to have knocked him out at last.

There was nothing to do but wait, John told himself firmly and pulled one of the armchairs up to Sherlock's bedside where he settled down, pretending that he would be even remotely able to focus on the book he had brought.

Holding onto Sherlock's hand helped slightly.

* * *

"You're not real," Sherlock suddenly declared in a slur. John looked up from the book he wasn't reading and straight into a pair of unfocussed eyes. So much for that peaceful, drug-induced sleep.

"Why's that?"

"I've made you up. It's the only explanation… it's the logical…"

"I'm very real," he assured calmly. Apparently it was one step forward and two back.

"No, you're not…" Sherlock protested, eyes fluttering in a struggle to stay open. "Complete opposite… mirror opposite…"

"You're not making any sense. Go back to sleep."

"You'll just die again."

Was that what the dreams were about? John raised Sherlock's hand and held it firmly against the inside of his other wrist. "Feel that? I'm real. I'm alive."

"Then why… are you here?" Sherlock asked, confusion thick in his raspy voice as he tucked at his hand, grasping it firmly, restlessly.

There really was only one answer to that. And it was not as if Sherlock would actually remember the conversation. "Because I love you. Really, Sherlock, we've already covered this."

"Don't leave," Sherlock demanded, suddenly sounding very aware as he tried to mash their now entwined fingers more firmly together.

"I won't."

"Not ever," Sherlock pressed.

"I won't."

_You were the one who left me, you fucking bastard._

Sherlock nodded off again and a nurse came to tell that the tests had come back negative. John could have laughed with relief but settled for brushing Sherlock's matted curls away from his forehead. Better not to wake him.

Just the flu. It was just the flu. People got it all the time, as Sherlock had said. He would be fine in a few days. Absolutely fine.

John turned his attention back to his book, actually reading it this time.

* * *

Two chapters later it took only one mention of Moriarty's name and a single _please no_ to cross Sherlock's lips for John to find himself in Sherlock's hospital bed once more, holding the thin, shivering body close.

Moriarty. Five years had passed – two since Sherlock had returned – and still the mere mention of the name made John's stomach feel like lead.

* * *

In hindsight John could see with perfect ease that Mycroft had deliberately tried to rile him up. As annoying as it felt to have his emotions manipulated with, John did, however, not regret a single word said.

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft greeted as he opened the door to Sherlock's room rather abruptly. "Well, isn't this cosy?"

John's hand stilled on its path over Sherlock's back for a few seconds before he, with an edge of defiance, resumed the stroking motion.

"Mycroft," he greeted neutrally, noticing that the elder Holmes seemed tenser than usual.

"Meningitis?"

So there _were_ limits to how fast information travelled. "False alarm."

Most of the lines around Mycroft's eyes disappeared. "Thank God."

"Hardly."

"Simply a figure of speech."

Sherlock, still so very weak, lifted his head slightly from where it rested against his shoulder. "Leave John alone, Mycroft," he mumbled. "He's mine."

"Just as you are his, I see," Mycroft droned in his usual, imperious fashion as he sat down in the armchair still placed beside the room's small table. John very firmly suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.

"Hmm," Sherlock replied, his voice no more than a deep vibration against John's shoulder before he seemed to fall back into unconsciousness.

Several minutes passed before Mycroft spoke again. He probably wanted to make sure that Sherlock was actually sleeping.

"My brother is, despite his chaotic choice of life, a man of habits…" Mycroft eventually began slowly, sounding as if he was weighing his every word with the utmost caution. "You have become one of them. In fact, I think it's safe to say that you are the single most important one… He relies on you to an astonishing degree… and trusts you… implicitly…"

John kept silent, somehow knowing that Mycroft had not yet delivered his intended message.

He was proven correct almost immediately.

"You can never leave him. I hope you realise that."

"Ah, of course. It's the 'hurt him and I'll kill you' speech. Somehow I thought you would be above all that," he replied with as much sarcasm as possible.

"I am being very serious, John. I wonder if you even truly understand how singularly extraordinary it is for Sherlock, with his skills and intellect, to find someone wholly trustworthy? Do you realise what it means for him to engage with another person so completely without reserve?"

His hand stilled on Sherlock's back, supressing the urge to tell Mycroft to mind his own damn business. "If you think, even for one second, that I could ever deliberately hurt Sherlock then you don't have half the brain he credits you with."

"I am simply ensuring that we are on the same page where my brother is concerned," Mycroft continued with a syrupy, condescending smile that pressed all his wrong buttons.

"Of the two of us I'm the only one who has never used Sherlock as a bargaining chip."

It was a cheap shot, very cheap even, John knew that, but he had still not forgiven Mycroft for that particular stunt.

"All the more reason for you to tread carefully," Mycroft pressed on relentlessly, which only made John's temper flare further. "Do we understand each other?"

"I love him. Understand that, why don't you?" The words slipped out without his permission, a slip of his tongue made in anger.

Mycroft looked as if he had just successfully overthrown a particularly difficult government.

"I'm glad to hear it. Very glad."

"Good. If that's all you came for, feel free to piss off anytime," John snapped, telling himself that he absolutely refused to feel self-conscious. Sherlock was his best friend – of course he loved him. It was hardly a state secret.

"Very well," Mycroft smiled (smirked, really) as he stood back up. "I still need to talk to a few of the doctors here. It was nice though, this little… chat."

John chose to completely ignore Mycroft, instead saying, "Sherlock's fever dreams… they're more like night terrors. Anything I need to know?"

"Nothing beyond what I imagine you already know and suspect. Then again, that is quite enough, wouldn't you say?"

"Definitely."

Guilt and regret marred Mycroft's expression for a short moment before he masked it with disturbing ease and made to leave.

Mycroft did, however, seem to falter and turned around in the doorway, leaning against his umbrella. A grimace akin to a bad toothache crossed his face. "My brother's heart… whatever its condition and limitations… is clearly yours. Treat it with caution, John. For all our sakes."

Then he was gone.

Sherlock shivered violently and clenched a fistful of his jumper tightly, reminding John once more exactly of why he was in his current position.

_Leave him alone, Mycroft. He's mine._

That was, of course, not true. John knew that. Sherlock wasn't anyone's. He was completely his own.

* * *

Once Sherlock woke again – six hours after Mycroft had left – he seemed much better. So much so that his ailment could be described as 'a mild case of the flu'. It was almost ridiculous. When Sherlock however proceeded to throw up again, more tests were taken.

When MRSA, mononucleosis and mad cow disease were ruled out, Doctor Jansen admitted defeat and brought in a second opinion, which John in turn was so thoroughly unimpressed with that he demanded a second second opinion.

The second second opinion – a lovely woman close to retiring age who was completely unfazed by Sherlock's horrific attitude – prescribed another round of antibiotics and declared that Sherlock would be released as soon as he could keep a day's worth of solid food in him, which, of course, thoroughly pissed him off.

In fact, he became so venomous that John escaped to Baker Street for a shower and a change of clothes in an effort to not follow Sherlock's lead and hurl out things at him that he knew he would later regret.

In retrospect, he should probably have stayed away a little longer.

* * *

John had known that Sherlock would become completely insufferable once he got better. He had _known_. It still managed to grate on his emotionally exhausted and sleep deprived nerves.

The paper he was trying to read crumpled in his hands as he took his irritation out on it. "Shut up! For one second, could you just be quiet? Yes, it's my fucking _fault_ that you're here. Yes, you're feeling better. No, you're most likely not going to have a relapse. Yes, the walls are a disgusting colour. I KNOW! But there is nothing anyone can do about it at the moment, so would you please, for God's sake, stop going on about it for just a minute!"

Sherlock sat completely still, blinking owlishly a few times before he squared his shoulders almost imperceptibly. "No one is forcing you to stay here, John. Feel free to go whenever you like."

"And leave the poor doctors to deal with you on their own? Not going to happen," he retorted, once more taking his annoyance out on the paper as he tried to straighten it back out. He only managed to tear the article he had been reading in half. "You'd get yourself locked up in the psych ward in less than ten minutes, straightjacket and all."

All emotion instantly drained from Sherlock's face and he sat up straighter, back now completely rigid as he gave John a look that could have frozen hell over. He could have throttled himself. After everything he had been privy to in the past days those were probably the worst possible words he could have thoughtlessly hurled out.

"I didn't – That came out wrong."

"Did it?" Sherlock sneered at him, tone clipped. It was almost frightening how cold and cruel he suddenly looked.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

Sherlock did not acknowledge his apology and as the seconds ticked by the silence grew too heavy to take.

John stood up and rubbed a hand over his face. "You know what, I think I'll go get some tea. I'm tired and you're bored and we both know that's not a great cocktail."

"Do as you please. I don't care."

"Sherlock…"

_"_John." It was a mocking sneer, Sherlock's face scrunched up in arrogant disdain.

John hovered halfway to Sherlock's bed. He knew what he wanted to say. What he _needed_ to say. Doing so would, however, cross the line from 'flatmate' and 'friend' to something far more intense and indefinable. In the interest of self-preservation John made sure to cross that line as infrequently as possible and had, in fact, only done so once before.

In the end it was the still very fresh memories of Sherlock's terrible dreams that propelled him forward until he tentatively sat down very close to Sherlock on the hospital bed, one leg folded underneath him.

"I'm sorry. You know I didn't mean that."

Sherlock sighed, suddenly looking tired and annoyed. "It doesn't matter."

"You have a beautiful mind, Sherlock Holmes."

Whatever Sherlock had expected that was clearly not it. After a few moments of complete stillness, Sherlock's eyes grew almost frightening in their intensity; the force and depth of emotion on display in those pale eyes so different from his impassive expression. It was the soaring heights of Sherlock's intellect and the deepest trenches of denied weaknesses all at once.

"You…"

For once he knew exactly what Sherlock was getting at.

"Of course I do. I always will."

Sherlock seemed to crumple a little. He looked so young, so lost and so very tired. He tipped forward; his forehead coming to rest against John's collarbone as one hand clenched a handful of his shirt directly above his heart. John knew he did not imagine the slight hitch in Sherlock's breath and could not help remembering the last time Sherlock had pressed a hand against his heart in a similar fashion.

_"It hurt. Every single day for three years... You broke my heart, Sherlock."_

Long fingers had tangled in his jumper against his heart as Sherlock had enveloped him in a determined embrace for the very first time.

_"It's not just yours."_

That snippet of memory was enough to make him clutch at Sherlock, fingers now clenched in soft clothes and buried in dark curls, his chest contracting painfully. Sherlock held on just as tightly.

_I love you. I love you so damned much._

This was exactly why John had been so apprehensive. They were too damn fragile underneath the layers of everyday life. The knowledge that they needed, absolutely _needed_, one another became too real. It was a gushing wound that could only be exposed for so long without causing fatal anaemia. It was Moriarty's legacy.

* * *

**O**

* * *

"Sherlock! Listen to me! The more you eat, the sooner they'll let you out of here. Simple as that."

Sherlock remained completely unmoved, still scowling at the tray of hospital food.

"You need to eat," he repeated for the umpteenth time.

"It's disgusting."

"All right," he sighed. "How about a compromise then? You will eat everything you've been given and I will… I will call Lestrade and get you a nice, gruesome cold case. Deal?"

Sherlock seemed to evaluate the offer. "Two."

"I'll see what I can do."

John went outside in the hallway to make the call, stretching his legs a bit. He figured that Lestrade would most likely be at his office and forewent calling his mobile number. The phone only rang once.

"Lestrade?"

"Speaking."

"Hey. It's John."

"Oh, hey! How's Sherlock's cold?"

"Yeah, well that's why I'm calling. He's in the hospital."

"Bart's?"

"No, Princess Grace Hos – "

"Hang on – what do you mean _in_?" Lestrade cut him off.

"He came down with the flu, but –"

"He's all right?" Lestrade interrupted again.

"He's fine. Bored out of his mind, of course."

"Of course."

"Anyway, the reason I'm calling… I was wondering if you might do me a favour."

"What is it?"

"Do you happen to have any cold case files you can spare for a little while?"

"I'm not really supposed to hand out police files like that."

John remained silent, waiting a few long beats before he heard Lestrade heave a heavy sigh over the line.

"All right. I suppose I still owe you one back from… well, you know. Listen, I'm done at the office in a couple of hours. I can come by with them then? Listen to what he has to say in between insults?"

"That would be great. Thank you very much, Greg. Really."

"How cold do you want them?"

"You know Sherlock. I think the colder the better."

"That bad?" Lestrade sounded sympathetic.

"Pretty much."

"Anything else I can get for you on the way? Something decent to drink?"

"Ah… no, thanks. I think we're good. Oh, and we're at The Princess Grace Hospital."

Lestrade snorted. "'Course you are. See you in a bit."

"Ta."

Crisis averted. Now Sherlock just had to uphold his end of the bargain.

John turned around on the spot and almost collided with another person. On further inspection it turned out to be the same woman who had addressed him two days ago. This time she was wearing a white-coat. She worked at the hospital, then.

She smiled, apparently recognising him as well. "Still here, I see."

"Yes, well… hopefully not for much longer though," he said, smiling back.

"Your friend is better then, I take it?"

"He is, yes. Much."

"Good to hear. Have a nice day." She gave him another smile and moved past him.

John turned around and followed her retreating form until she turned a corner. "You… too…"

Dr. Mary Morstan, her nametag had said.


	2. The Game Is On

**A/N: **Something to keep in mind from here on: Sherlock **lies** to himself. In fact, you shouldn't take anyone's words as gospel in this story – hell, even I lie in the story summary when saying that no one will gain a wife when, in the next chapter, there is quite obviously a wedding (not John's) going on.

* * *

**October Part 2**

* * *

"It's dreadful," Sherlock observed, coughing twice before the last syllable had crossed his lips. The grey rain soaked everything, leaving huge puddles on a lifeless Baker Street. It was a depressing view.

"Mmh," John acquiesced dispassionately from his armchair. "It's not the 'wettest autumn in fifty years' for nothing."

"When will it stop?" Another cough. How ironic.

"You mean, when will you be well enough that I don't care if you get yourself soaked to the bone again?"

"Same difference."

The slow typing behind him stopped. "You could use an umbrella, you know. Or a raincoat."

Sherlock turned around to face John, suppressing a small shiver as the woollen afghan slipped from his shoulder. "_Please,_" he scoffed, readjusting John's blanket around him (_I can't believe you don't have anything warmer than those stupid dressing gowns_).

Even against several layers of clothing Sherlock swore he could feel how the thing scratched him. A pity it was so warm.

"Yeah, yeah, of course not. Why make life easy?" John retorted and got up, gathering long drunk teacups to bring them to the kitchen.

That was an old, unresolved and mostly unacknowledged argument – him never doing anything the easy, straightforward way in favour of 'playing the game' as John once put it. The implication was, of course, that he had not done so either with Moriarty. That he had willingly risked his own life to not be bored, only to end up getting cornered and, in John's reality, dead through his own carelessness.

He followed John into the kitchen and watched how the cups were rinsed and washed with practiced efficiency. Sherlock could not quite determine whom it said more about that John remained completely unfazed by the fact that he was practically breathing down his ear. Surely there had been a time where personal space mattered to a greater extent?

"John?"

John took a step backwards as he turned around, narrowly avoiding a collision. "Yeah?"

He looked at the cupboards above John's head. "At the hospital… I – uh…"

How did people do this? Should he say thank you? It seemed so contrived; inadequate compared to what he truly wanted to convey. John simply remained looking up at him, still and calm and constant, with a tea towel in his hands.

In the end he made a spontaneous move, wrapping his arms, blanket and all, around John's shoulders. What was the point, after all, of pride and posturing in the face of such unwavering loyalty? _You love me._

It was quite possibly – were one able to quantify such things – the most awkward hug in the history of mankind. For all of two seconds. Then John hugged him back and Sherlock found it was every bit as safe and calming as at the hospital. He did not _want_ to let go. Closer was better. It was infinitely better.

"You scared me for a minute back there."

Sherlock had been scared as well. Not for as long as a minute, but – well. "Sorry."

He really should have done something besides acting like a deer in headlights. He should have scoffed. Or laughed. Or insulted the doctor and his clandestine gambling habit.

John's hands clenched against his back, the bridge of his nose pressing almost painfully against his collarbone. "He said cancer, Sherlock! He just hurled it out, like – like it didn't… Jesus Christ, they're supposed to be professionals!"

"I do not have any kind of cancer," he said simply, speaking into John's hair.

"I know."

"And they suspended him."

"I know."

"And you got a second second opinion, who confirmed it was just the flu."

"I know."

"I didn't even get pneumonia. A bit anti-climatic, really." It really was, now that he thought about it. Dull even, considering all the fuss.

"Shut up, Sherlock."

John's body was a veritable furnace compared to himself and Sherlock was certain that if they remained as they were he could fall asleep on his feet. His eyes had already drooped closed. "What now?"

"What'd you mean?"

"Well, we can hardly remain standing here all day," he clarified even as he moved to rest his chin on John's head.

"Ow," John exclaimed, drawing back. "God, your chin is sharp."

And if that was not sufficient proof that he was never wrong, Sherlock did not know what was.

* * *

**O**

* * *

Sherlock was on his way to Bart's morgue where a selection of unclaimed limbs was waiting for him (it might be a problem fitting it all into the fridge) when John's laptop caught his attention. Or rather, John's activities on John's laptop caught his attention.

He retracted his last couple of steps and leant forward over the back of John's armchair.

"Dr. Mary Morstan, Department for Paediatric Cardiology and Heart Surgery."

John resolutely closed the laptop.

"I trust you realise stalking is a criminal offense?"

"Wha – Stalking? I'm not _stalking_ anyone," John protested, turning halfway around to give him a stern glare.

Sherlock straightened back up and went to put on his coat. "Nor do you have a scrapbook filled with pictures of dead people."

"It's _not_ a scrapbook!"

"And _that_ is what you decide to take offense to?"

John ignored him, instead asking, "Where are you going?"

"Bart's." Sherlock knew that his tone alone would give away the fact that John would not like where it was headed.

Sure enough, John's face fell into a grimace of utmost resignation. "I'll tidy the fridge."

"That would be tremendously helpful." For some reason his very genuine smile was met with a heavy sigh.

* * *

**O**

* * *

"Sherlock! Get up and get dressed. You've got a client waiting."

He looked at his watch. It was three in the afternoon. "Will it be boring?"

"You'll just have to find out, won't you?"

_Ugh. _Sherlock, quite literally, rolled out of bed, caught as he was in a sheet. It had better not be boring.

"You all right?" John asked from the other side of his door, no doubt in response to the noise.

"Fine."

"Hurry up, then."

If it turned out to be boring he might just do that experiment on the flammability of scratching jumpers (Might need a codename – something long and beyond John's appallingly rudimentary grasp of chemistry).

"The Princess Grace is not exactly known for its paediatric cardiology department," John's voice drifted down the hall over the sound of tea being poured as Sherlock made his way towards the living room. Tea? That was not customary when interviewing clients. Did John know the person?

"Thank you," an unknown, female voice responded. "No, but they have a very good orthopaedic one. I was attending a seminar but I'm usually working at GOSH – eh, I mean The Great Ormond Street Hospital for Children."

Ah. Female doctor. Met her (briefly, going by the topic of the conversation) at Princess Grace. Works at a children's hospital. _Doctor Mary Morstan, Department for Paediatric Cardiology and Heart Surgery._ What a curious coincidence.

"Ah, yes, I've heard of it. Ranked number one, isn't it?"

"In Greater London, yes."

Sherlock stepped into the living room, observing for the first time the infamous doctor (surgeon, clearly) Morstan. She was sitting on the sofa, coat and bag deposited beside her. Obviously coming just from work (aside from a very brief trip home to fetch something related to her presence - most likely some sort of document) in response to a sudden incident.

"Ah, there he is," John stated the obvious and got up from what had long ago become his customary chair when interviewing potential clients to pour a third cup of tea from the steaming pot, which he placed on the coffee table.

Doctor Mary Morstan stood up, clearly intending to introduce herself.

"Yes, yes, I know. John already told me all about you," he said, giving her a dismissive wave as he sunk down into the armchair that had been drawn up close to the coffee table. It was entirely too early (or late) to be bothered by unnecessary etiquette. Besides, their potential client was in a hurry, judging by the way she kept fingering the strap of her wristwatch.

"_I_ didn't tell you anything. If anything, you deduced it," John protested.

Sherlock stifled a yawn behind his hand. "There's a difference?"

Their potential client looked confusedly between him and a slightly flustered, annoyed John. What now? What had he said? _Forget it_. He really could not be bothered. Instead, Sherlock turned his attention towards the woman – Mary. "You obviously have a case you believe I can help you with. Please, sit down and explain. And don't be boring."

"Uhm… all right. I received a letter earlier today – uhm, here," she said, standing up again to hand over a single sheet of paper and a torn envelope. "I was having lunch at the hospital where I work when a courier delivered it to me. There was no sender."

Elderly man's writing. Right-handed. Fountain pen. High quality paper with a lingering scent of tobacco (Loose-leaf. Kentucky Select). Smoker, then. Most likely born in America.

The letter was short and rather unimaginative.

_Miss Morstan,_

_If you want to know what happened to your father and claim what is rightfully yours, come to the Lyceum Theatre tonight at half past six and wait at the third pillar._

_If you are distrustful you may bring a friend along with you, though I ask that you do not contact the police under any circumstances. Disobey and all will be lost. _

_Your unknown friend_

He handed the letter over to John, who quietly read it over.

"What do you intend to do?" he asked the waiting doctor Morstan.

"I don't know. That's why I came to you. I don't exactly have anyone to take with me on such an… outing. Well, at least no one suitable. I suppose what I wanted from you is advice as to whether or not – once you've heard the whole story – I should go."

John looked up from the letter, brow furrowed in confusion (bless him, Sherlock thought, suppressing a small smile). "Whole story?"

"There's more to it than just the letter," Mary said, a slightly strained look crossing her face. Not as composed as she pretended to be.

"Of course there is. Do continue."

She nodded quietly to herself, taking a deep breath. "First of all you should know a bit about my father. He was an American, but went to school here before he moved back and enlisted. He did two tours in Vietnam, came back and returned to Britain where he met my mum. He was offered a job at the Pentagon in 1985 and moved back to the States again with my mum and I."

"What happened that he sent you back here?"

"How –"

"It's what I do," Sherlock deflected, leaning slightly forward in a silent but insistent prompt to continue.

"Of course. Well, in short, my mum died and he was too busy with his military career to be responsible for a five-year-old. I was sent to live with my grandparents in Edinburgh and saw my father perhaps once a year. That is, until he suddenly contacted me, insisting that we meet. All he told me was that he'd visit me, here in London, the next day. That's the last I ever heard."

"And this was?"

"Almost ten years ago."

Now _that_ was promising.

John's brow furrowed again. "Ten years? But why – "

"The letter is not an isolated incident," he interrupted. "What else have you received?"

"Cheques. Once a year, for a thousand pounds each. The first arrived six years ago, completely anonymously."

"Is the handwriting of the letter the same as that of the cheques?"

"I think so, but you can see for yourself. I haven't cashed them in," she said, handing over a neat bundle of well-preserved envelopes of the same make and material. The writing was indeed the same.

"You come prepared."

"Well, I'm under a bit of a time constraint. Efficiency seemed important," she shrugged.

Doctors. Perhaps there was somewhat of a common denominator there?

"Was your father supposed to meet someone at the airport?" Sherlock asked, passing the cheques over to John.

"Yes, his old army friend, Thomas Sholto. I've never met him."

Thomas Sholto.

"But – what? He never showed?" John inquired.

"No. He checked in in Washington but never showed in Heathrow."

"That's very strange," John observed, shooting him a quick glance to assess his feelings on the topic. "And you contacted the police and airport security?"

"Both here and in Washington, yes. I also tried getting hold of the Pentagon, but nothing ever came of it. I don't know what happened to my father beyond that he must have died."

"That's terrible."

"It was a long time ago."

Sholto. There was something about that name…

"What happened to his luggage?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the nagging sensation that the name had triggered for a few seconds.

"That's almost the strangest thing," Mary said, frowning. "It never showed up either."

That was _very _promising. Well, not for Mr Morstan – he was most definitely dead, as his daughter had surmised.

And then there was Sholto. _Sholto._ There was definitely something about that name… Something he could not locate beyond a connection to Scotland Yard. Something old. Something about something being swept under the carpet. Files left to rot in the archives. Displeased police officers. He needed to get to the Yard.

"Hang on, where are you going?" John demanded, tearing him from the trenches of a forgotten (Not forgotten. Need to find the right path) memory.

"Out."

"_Where?_"

"Don't worry, I'll be back in time," he took the time to state as he shrugged into his coat.

"Sherlock!"

* * *

Breaking into the old archives at Scotland Yard was even easier than Sherlock had anticipated.

Finding the right case file was annoyingly difficult and took him almost an hour and a half.

When he did find it, it did not disappoint: money laundering involving a US official. Case officially closed due to lack of evidence.

And Sherlock remembered. The name had been mentioned by the two officers passing him in the second-floor hallway on the day – at the very moment – that Mycroft had shown up at Scotland Yard to confront him with his new 'career choice'. It was almost twelve years ago, but Sherlock still remembered how Lestrade had escaped to the pub at the end of that encounter and gotten rather spectacularly drunk. Mycroft's displeased, rather threatening position on the matter _would_ have that effect on the then very newly appointed Detective Inspector.

Sherlock had just found the file on the only promising lead regarding the case of Thomas Sholto – a short mention of his suspected accomplice, Jonathan Small – when he heard approaching footsteps

Small room. No easy hiding place. Better not to try in the first place.

The door beeped twice, unlocked and opened. He was in luck; it was Lestrade. " – someone to pull the aunt in Perth in for questioning. We need a sam – Sherlock? What the hell are you doing here?"

Both Lestrade and Anderson were looking at him in stunned surprise.

"Investigating."

"You're… what, on a case? With Dimmock?"

"Oh no, nothing like that."

Lestrade, unlike Anderson, caught on. "You broke in, didn't you?"

"The password is four-digit. Not that difficult. You should probably get someone to check up on that," he observed (rather helpfully, if Sherlock had to say so himself) and flipped a page in the Jonathan Small file. Nothing much of interest, besides a small note concerning the man's military service in Vietnam. He had (officially) been missing in action since 1975. That was rather inconsistent with the suspected money laundering.

"Do I even have to tell you how illegal that is?" Lestrade exclaimed, slamming a bundle of papers down on top of the closest filing cabinet. "Breaking into police archives, Sherlock! What were you thinking?"

"He clearly wasn't," Anderson sneered. "I don't even know why you're surprised by this."

"Give it here," Lestrade demanded, holding out a hand towards him as Anderson was completely ignored.

Sherlock calmly handed over the two files.

"Not those!" Lestrade immediately protested. "Well, those as well, but that wasn't what I meant. My ID-card. Give it here."

"Fine." He had more back at Baker Street anyway.

"Count yourself lucky I'm not arresting you for this," Lestrade said, stabbing his retrieved identification at him in what was probably supposed to be admonishment. Sherlock merely sighed. How much longer was he supposed to be detained by this?

"You're – We can't just let him go. He broke into Scotland Yard!"

"Brilliant observation, Anderson."

"Listen here, you – "

"_Shut it_, you two! Sherlock, get out. Now."

Finally.

* * *

Sherlock briefly paused halfway up the seventeen stairs to the flat when he heard voices drift down the stairwell.

"You caused quite the commotion at Princess Grace, I heard. Is it true that you got a doctor suspended?"

Apparently doctor Morstan was back already.

"Well, he mostly got himself suspended. Forgot that he wasn't just chatting to a colleague over a cuppa, I suppose."

Sherlock stepped into the flat (steam still coming from the teapot – fresh batch. Remnants of biscuits on a plate. Wrong conclusion. She had not left in the first place). "More likely he was so sleep deprived from staying up all night, playing poker on the Internet, that his already questionable intellect had taken complete leave."

John's head snapped towards him, a challenging look in his eyes. "Why has Lestrade been texting me, asking that I run the principles of 'police property' and 'trespassing' by you?"

"No idea. Are you ready to go? It's almost time."

"We're all going?" their client asked, cutting short all further argument about Lestrade's texts.

"Naturally."

"Unless you prefer to leave the whole thing alone, of course," John amended. _Shut up, John. We're not leaving a promising case alone._

"No, no," Mary immediately protested. "I want to know what this thing that's been following me around for a decade is."

"Excellent."

Sherlock remained hovering at the door, waiting for John to come and get his jacket. "You might want to bring your gun," he said quietly, making sure that their client (in the process of putting wallet and phone into her coat pockets) would not overhear. John nodded seriously and disappeared upstairs.

* * *

The taxi ride to the Lyceum was conducted mostly in silence aside from a few sentences regarding the case. Mary had never heard of a Jonathan Small, which only made Sherlock more convinced of the man's importance. There had to be something – some recent development that had prompted Thomas Sholto (in all likelihood) to get in direct contact with his dead army friend's only living relative.

Outside the theatre small crowds were already gathering despite the rain, filling the air with intelligible chatter as they made their way to the third pillar. John's eyes were sweeping over rooftops and darkened windows. Sherlock could hardly blame him, but it was blowing things wildly out of proportion. He grabbed hold of John's elbow for a second, causing John to look up at him. He shook his head minutely and John relaxed minutely.

They did not have to wait long before a black car – windows so heavily tinted even his dear brother would approve – pulled up to the curb.

A heavy-set man (Former professional boxer. Unarmed. Expensive suit. Cheap shoes. New in his employment) exited the very illegally parked car and made his way towards them with firm steps (Dangerous man).

"Mary Morstan?" the man inquired without preamble.

"Yes."

"If you and your friends would follow me."

"Follow you where, exactly?" Sherlock asked. His query was completely ignored as the ex-boxer turned on his heel and walked back to the waiting car where he held open the passenger door without even looking in their direction.

_Well, well. Let's do it the hard way then. _

He took a single step towards the car and then it was his turn to have his elbow grabbed.

"Sherlock! We have no idea where we're going or who these people are," John protested. "This is a bad idea. A very bad idea."

"Relax, John," he said and continued towards the waiting car. If the intention were to harm Mary Morstan, she would have received something quite different from a letter from these people.

The unnamed ex-boxer remained completely unmoved as Sherlock gave him a scrutinising look before lowering himself into the backseat of the car where he was joined first by Mary and then John.

The windows were just as tinted on the inside as on the outside and there was a partition of equally blackened, bulletproof glass separating the front of the car from the back. They had no way of seeing where they were going.

The car had barely set in motion before they all heard the sound of the doors locking and John withdrew his gun (How pointless when the only option was to shoot through the back of the driver's seat). To their client's credit she refrained from commenting, even though she did look rather shocked.

"By all means, shoot the driver," he said sarcastically. "Excellent idea. Why didn't I think of that?"

John gave him a hard glare around Mary's head. "I'm not going to shoot _him_, just the glass."

"It's bulletproof."

"Great. Fantastic. I told you it was a bad idea, but _noo_, let's get into strange cars and drive off to God knows where. What could go wrong?"

"Shut up, John," he warned and closed his eyes. He needed silence.

Rochester Row. Vincent Square. Held up by busy intersection. Vauxhall Bridge Road.

They were crossing the Thames. "Why are we crossing the Thames?"

"We're crossing the Thames?"

"Yes. Shut up."

Apparently they were on their way to Surrey.

* * *

They drove on for another twenty minutes before the car pulled onto a private driveway; wet gravel crunching underneath the tyres. The car eventually came to a complete stop, doors unlocking.

Outside, the rain was still falling heavy from the grey October sky. They had been driven to an old, two-storey manor house. Light was coming from only the first-floor windows.

"Where the hell are we?!" John demanded of their silent driver, who was already making his way towards the house, holding the door open for them.

"Pondicherry Lodge."

John gave him a confused look. "How – "

Sherlock simply pointed towards the heavy front door above which the name was chiselled in stone. "Oh."

They were led to the first floor and shown into the main drawing room where their silent driver placed himself in front of the door (the only door), effectively blocking it.

There were three men present besides Sholto and the driver, two of whom were obviously Sholto's twin sons. Both of them were carrying badly concealed handguns.

Sherlock felt more than saw John tense beside him. They were outnumbered, should it come down to it, even given the fact that the third man (possibly Jonathan Small) was sitting down, prosthetic leg held out at an awkward angle.

The furniture had been pushed against the walls, leaving nothing but the single, occupied, chair and a small table, upon which a strange-looking safe was placed, in the centre of the room.

The man who had to be Thomas Sholto (late sixties, right-handed, smoker, acquired taste for expensive habits) stepped forward with a large smile plastered on his face, hand held out in greeting. "Mary Morstan!" he exclaimed. "Thomas Sholto, at your service. It's such a pleasure, finally meeting you."

The man (traces of suppressed American accent) was obviously lying. His whole countenance was that of someone who wanted to be anywhere but where he was.

"I'm terribly sorry about all the secrecy. It must seem very odd to you, but it's imperative to avoid undesirable attention. I'm sure you would agree."

"You mean because of the cheques?" _She is quick on the uptake_. Sherlock was almost impressed. "I'm sorry to disappoint," Mary continued sternly, "but I never cashed them in. You have nothing on me, Mr Sholto."

Thomas Sholto apparently thought ignoring that last comment was the best way forward. He flashed a false smile (it takes one to know one) and gave first him and then John an assessing look. "And your friends are?"

Mary ignored Sholto as well, instead saying, "Your letter – I assume you were the one to write me – implied that you have information about my father. I would very much like to know whatever it is you can tell me." Her words subtly shifted the atmosphere in the room, making it clear that charades were neither appreciated nor tolerated. She was good.

"Of course," Sholto began. "As I'm sure you already know I served with your father – and with Mr Jonathan Small over there – in Vietnam. We met at West Point and were deployed together."

The man in the chair – Jonathan Small – spoke up for the first time. "Cut to the chase, Sholto."

"Your father was murdered. By whom and for what reason I don't know." That was direct. And annoyingly uninformative.

Mary stuffed her hands into her coat pockets and Sherlock could hear the disappointment in her voice as she said, "Then we have nothing more to discuss."

"Oh, but we do! You see, your father knew he was in danger. He contacted me, told me that he was to come to London. He knew his life was in danger and asked me to take care of something of great value for him. A veritable treasure, Miss Morstan."

Sherlock took another, longer look at the safe on the table. Treasure? How fanciful.

John seemed to share the sentiment (the shift in his posture indicated scepticism). "A treasure?"

"A treasure," Sholto repeated, eyes never leaving Mary. "Your father, among other things, placed that safe over there with me. I think it's time it was opened."

"Then why haven't you done so?" she asked.

"We need your fingerprint."

"And if I refuse? I have no interest in any treasure."

"I assure you, all we want is your fingerprint. All you have to do is press your finger against that little plate," Sholto smiled, indicating towards the safe.

"My father died ten years ago. There were no such things as fingerprint recognition back then."

"Your father had access to all sorts of things not known to the public. Now, Miss Morstan, all we need is your fingerprint. The answer to your father's tragic death might be just inside that little door."

"That's not what you think is inside the safe," Sherlock said. He could recognise a blatant lie when he heard one. "You think it holds the last part of your little treasure."

Sholto made an annoyed gesture, which was really a camouflaged order to his sons. The twins began advancing from either side of their father, one approaching John and the other himself. Their movements did however reveal the fact that they were unused to fighting or carrying a weapon for that matter. It was all just a lot of posturing. Taking them out would be child's play if only they came within reach.

"Don't even think about it," John warned, drawing his gun and pointing it at Sholto with deadly precision in one, fluent motion, which caused the Sholto twins to draw their own guns. There were entirely too many firearms in the room. _Americans_. "Tell your lackeys –"

"Sons," Sherlock supplied, causing John to let out a low hiss. Ah. Bad timing.

" – your _sons_ to stay right where they are."

"Or what, you're going to shoot an old man? I don't believe you," Sholto smiled.

"You better believe me," John countered.

Sherlock decided to ignore the advancing twins for the moment. He had more pressing matters to attend to. "Why go to such lengths to open a safe? You are a wealthy man already. Why bother? Why bother _now?_"

"That will be revealed as soon as it's opened."

"Then perhaps you should tell your offspring to _back off_." The situation had spiralled out of control far too quickly and, well – inertia. Need he say more?

"Of course. As soon as he does," Sholto indicated towards John. Not likely.

"For someone who just wants to help his old army friend's daughter get some closure, you are very suspicious. Perhaps you have something to hide? Perhaps you were responsible for Morstan's death?"

The gun-wielding man now standing less than four feet to his left suddenly lashed out before he could react, striking his head with enough force to send him to the ground.

"_Bartholomew_, I said no!"

Interesting. Sholto had no intention of commiting a crime.

Sherlock stood back up quickly. His hand came back from his head bloodied but his vision and balance was unaffected.

He decided then and there to take advantage of the fact that the younger Sholto had lowered his gun slightly, his focus momentarily diverted to his father, and hit the man with a well-placed right hook. The armed presence of the twins quite simply made for too much stupid in the room.

The much shorter man tumbled to the ground (as predicted) and Sherlock wasted no time divesting Bartholomew Sholto of his weapon, swinging it at the man's skull with enough force to instantly render him unconscious. Really, it was not that difficult a result to achieve.

What he had not predicted was the second Sholto twin's gun going off, lodging a bullet deep in the floor plank a few centimetres left of where he was still hunched over. Sherlock immediately turned around, gun in hand, and saw that the only reason the bullet was not lodged somewhere else entirely (his own back) was the fact that John had launched himself at the man, mimicking Sherlock's move from a moment ago by bashing one army issue Browning LA91 against the man's skull. John stood back up, sending the extra gun (rid of it's ammunition with a practiced move) scooting across the floor.

"Are you all right?" John demanded, gun once more pointed at Sholto.

"Of course."

"I think that's quite enough, gentlemen," Jonathan Small said and got up, limping over to the table. Sholto sent the other man a nervous look, but otherwise looked remarkably blasé about the fact that both his sons were now lying unconscious on the floor.

Ah. Jonathan Small was the one who was _really _in charge of the little party. Even the silent driver hovering at the door was really working for Small. All the pieces were suddenly falling into place.

"Of course," Sherlock said out loud, addressing Sholto. "You've been forced into this. Forced, by the sudden reappearance of your old, supposedly dead army buddy from Vietnam. Why else would you contact Morstan's only living relative ten years after his death? Being a wealthy man already, you have no pressing need to open the safe. No, it was enough simply to have it. But then Jonathan Small turns up out of nowhere, demanding his, no doubt substantial, share. I imagine he wasn't all too pleased to find out that you had squandered as much of it as you have obviously done. You _need_ whatever it is that's hidden in that safe. And you can't afford any mistakes, which is of course why you've gone to such dramatic lengths to get us here. Rather a stupid idea to threaten our lives, then, given the fact that you're clearly not prepared to truly harm any of us. You've messed up, just like before. Not that you can be blamed for that. After all, eastern curiosities can be a rather dangerous trade –

John snorted, muttering something like 'tell us about it' underneath his breath.

" – and you've already messed up once. Tried to blame it on Jonathan Small. By the time the London Met would have managed to gain access to the right files you had already pulled the right strings back in the US. A decorated - _very_ decorated - war hero like you. Purple Heart, am I correct? Well, they could hardly have you charged with something as petty as money laundering, could they now? Of course not, so all charges were dropped after a little pressure from the Pentagon. Maybe you even involved Morstan in it. You remained here in England because the market for your little treasure is better here than across the pond. Your old war buddy didn't anticipate that move, but he found you in the end. And here we are."

All colour had drained from Sholto's face. It was all the confirmation he needed.

It was Jonathan Small who eventually spoke up. "Quite some friends you've got yourself there, Mary. Your father would have approved. It's completely right, of course. I was in a P.O.W camp for longer than I care to remember and once I got out… well… civilian life was not something I was capable of, so I stayed in Asia and made my own war."

"What made you return?" To everyone's surprise Mary was the one to ask that question.

"My leg was what happened. Besides, I'm getting old. I needed the money and decided to return here on the off chance that the treasure was still waiting for someone to pick it up. You see, we found the whole thing while stationed in Saigon. It was a random occurrence, a coincidence that we should stumble across it. There were four of us. Arthur Morstan, Dost Akbar, the worthless piece of shit here and me. We found a way to ship the whole thing to England and store it – not exactly legal, I'm afraid. We were to share the treasure once we got home. Share it equally!"

"We thought you'd both died!" Sholto interjected.

"Dost did die in that hell hole! But you didn't know that! You went ahead and took his share – _and mine_ – without ever thinking twice about it. Arthur was the only one who stuck to our agreement." Small turned back towards Mary. "Your father was a good man, had his heart in the right place. Probably what got him killed in the end. Some military secrets are more dangerous than others after all and he had access to them all… We're no closer to a resolution, though."

"The safe?" Mary inquired. She sounded nervous for the first time.

"Yes. Don't you want to know what your father left behind? I sure as hell do."

"I…" Mary looked over at John who looked at Sherlock, shrugging slightly (_why not?_). Why not, indeed. He nodded slightly in return.

"Try anything and I _will not_ hesitate to shoot," John stated, calmly moving his aim from Sholto to Small as Sherlock followed Mary over to the safe.

"All you need to do is press your right index finger against the plate there," Small encouraged, the excitement in his eyes betraying his tone.

Mary did as instructed and Small punched in a long code as well ('the sign of four'. How unnecessarily melodramatic). The safe made a series of high-pitched beeps and automatically opened.

It was empty. Absolutely, completely empty.

Jonathan Small lunged at the safe, frantically feeling the insides of it with both hands. "Empty… It's empty…"

Complete silence stretched out in the tense room for a few beats before John broke it, drily observing, "Now _that_ is anti-climatic."

Sherlock made the mistake of looking back at John in just the moment where John decided to look over at him.

Laughing (all right, giggling) at a crime scene (though, technically, no crime had been committed) had possibly never had worse timing. It completely broke the shocked stupor into which their two hosts had fallen. Jonathan Small turned towards Sholto and gave him a look that was far from peaceful. Even the hitherto passive ex-boxer guarding the door took a step further into the room, cracking his knuckles. Sherlock reaffirmed the grip on the gun in his hand and pointed it at the advancing man. They were suddenly fast overstaying their welcome. Very fast, as a matter of fact.

"And now, if you'll excuse us, we will take our leave. If you want the car back you can collect the keys at the bottom of the Thames."

John led their client out of the room and Sherlock followed close behind, keeping the gun trained on Small's henchman.

* * *

They arrived back at Baker Street with relative ease (_It's called gears, Sherlock. Use them!_).

Sherlock was inspecting the gash he had sustained in the mirror above the fireplace while John took care of saying goodbye to their client.

"I'm sorry we came no closer to finding out what happened to your father," John said.

"It's fine. It's not like it would change anything – he's dead."

What an astute observation, Sherlock thought, rolling his eyes and flinching slightly as his head protested.

"Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah, I'm… fine. I'm fine," the woman, Mary, said for what must have been the fifth time in the past thirty minutes. "Is it always like this? For you two?"

It wasn't all that bad. Would need stitches, though. Five. Maybe six.

"We don't always get shot at."

A small laugh filled the flat for a moment. "Good to know. Is he all right?"

Sherlock shifted his focus from his head to the scene behind him and saw, reflected in the mirror, how both John and Mary were standing at the door, looking at him.

"Sherlock? Yeah, absolutely. He's had worse," John said with a small smile directed at Mary.

"Well, then… I should probably get going…"

"Right."

"Thank you again for your help, Mr Holmes," Mary said, louder this time. As if he hadn't been able to hear her before. _People._

Sherlock turned around to face her, flashing a 'polite' smile as he did so. "Don't mention it."

Mary fidgeted in the doorway, seemingly reluctant to leave. Sherlock rolled his eyes again, ignoring his head, and made his way into the kitchen in search of the almost ridiculously well stocked first aid kit.

"Uhm – I was just… here, my number. If you want to have tea or… something," Mary trailed off, sounding embarrassed as far as Sherlock could judge without visual clues.

"Oh, thanks. Thank you. I'll uh – be in touch."

"You will? Great."

"Great."

Ugh. Dull. Boring. Predictable. So very predictable. At least this one seemed vaguely tolerable, Sherlock admitted as the door closed behind their now former client.

John was looking down at a small business card with a scribble on the backside when Sherlock returned to the living room, depositing the first aid kit on the coffee table.

"That was a strange evening," John eventually said, stuffing the card into his jeans pocket.

Well, if that was not an understatement. "I should say so."

John rounded on him, anger suddenly flashing in his eyes. "And just WHAT THE HELL did you think you were doing?! You just _had_ to provoke them, didn't you?"

"It worked out fine, didn't it?"

"That's not the point!"

"Then what is the point?"

John began stalking towards him with a furious scowl on his face, hands clenched at his sides. It was an expression that did not bode well for him and Sherlock took a step backwards, towards the door. "Now, John, there's no need to resort to domestic violence."

"Domestic – w_hat? _I'm not going to punch you, you moron! Just sit your careless arse down and let me look at your head."

Sherlock, wisely, did as he was told and kept completely still as John's fingers expertly probed the area around the gash. He was, momentarily, reminded of hospitals and fingers tangled in his hair, scrapping against the back of his skull. _You love me._

"You'll need stitches."

"I know."

John disinfected his hands a second time and pulled on a pair of latex gloves before setting to clean the wound. "Ow." The antiseptic stung.

"Suck it up."

"It ended _fine_."

"Still not the point."

"You haven't made a point," he pointed out as he felt a small tug against his scalp where the syringe containing a local anaesthetic pierced his skin.

"The point is that contrary to what you might think, Sherlock, my mind is not an empty void. I was a soldier, remember? Strategies, risk evaluation, spotting exits and blind spots – it's what I do. And I actually had three pretty decent approaches planned for how to get us out, before you decided to wrestle an armed man to the ground."

"What are you saying?"

"Warn me. Just _warn_ me. Could you do that?"

"I suppose I can make a concerted effort," he allowed. It was not an unreasonable request.

"Thank you."

"Three?"

"I was a damned good soldier."

Perhaps he should not have refused Mycroft's offer to read John's file back when he first moved into Baker Street. "You've never talked about Afghanistan."

"There's nothing to say," John shrugged, placing a white plaster over the stitches. "There you are, all done."

"It changed you. More than you like to admit."

John met his eyes for a long moment. "I have no regrets."

"You still have nightmares," he countered.

"Not about Afghanistan," John replied shortly, disappearing into the bathroom to dispose of the towel used to clean away the blood from his head.

_Stupid._ He had walked straight into that one.

John returned ten minutes later, obviously intending to head off to bed. "I'm knackered. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, John."

"You should take an ibuprofen for your head, by the way."

"Hm," Sherlock muttered noncommittally. "You worry too much. You always do."

"Yeah, well, I _am_ worrying for two, as you're bloody incapable of it." The smile flittering over John's face was half-hearted at best.

* * *

Whether it was the unpleasant, slightly throbbing pain of his head, the evening's events, his unusually persistent insomnia or something entirely different that drew him to John's room, Sherlock had no idea. It didn't really matter, either. The result was the same, namely the fact that he was now standing in the doorway to John's bedroom, watching his… flatmate… deep in sleep. Probably more than just a bit 'not good'. And the fact that he had done it exactly twice before did probably not make it better, either.

That did, however, not prevent Sherlock from slipping completely into the room and over to John's bed (which he had never done before). He looked very peaceful, as he lay there curled up on his side. It was an expression John had worn far too little lately.

As Sherlock stood there, looking down at John, he admitted to himself that what he wanted was the calm sense of safety that John's proximity had given him at the hospital a few weeks back. It had brought him a sense of peace he would not have thought possible and now he wanted it far more than he should. Probably also a bit not good.

Still, he would do nothing John himself had not already done, albeit in a different context (_This was your idea_). It would be fine, though. He had even brought his own sheets. It was perfect. As long as he remained on the far end of the bed then there would a perfect balance between broken and obeyed social conventions, the positives cancelling out the negatives. Easy.

Sherlock might have been more tired than he was willing to admit, but John did not wake as he lowered himself unto the bed (Afghanistan was indeed a long time ago) and so his reasoning was never put to the test.

John's entire body almost radiated warmth and Sherlock found that the meagre thirty centimetres of space between them were somehow too much.

It was almost pathetic how taken out of a textbook the situation was. Seemingly managing to fall in love despite his own limitations: a 'purely emotionally romantic relationship' as those who stressed the difference between sexual and romantic feelings put it.

Only that was not entirely true. He was not _in_ love. He was not capable of any such thing. Never had been. No. It was just love.

Sherlock momentarily closed his eyes and let himself observe how his heart rate seemed to slow down. How his whole being relaxed and his mind calmed, leaving behind nothing but the desire to be closer to John's warmth. Closer to his heart.

John had a beautiful heart, of that there could be absolutely no doubt. And if the continued beating of that heart was the sediment upon which his Mind Palace rested (_You're a pretentious sod, Sherlock_) then the contentment of that same heart (_It's not just yours_) was the billowing banner of the highest spire.

Pathetic.

_Love. Love is a chemical defect found in the losing side. _Everything but the work was transport. And if it wasn't, he would make it so.

Given the obvious constraints to his humanity, it had seemed the best solution by far. Given the people and attitudes he was surrounded by and tried to escape from (and the resulting isolation). Given the presence of tar black loathing turned inwards until it was foiled around every internal organ, begging for destruction, craving it. Given the absence of John.

But Sherlock had, even long before John, taught himself not to indulge in his darker side, had recognised that it would win if he kept feeding it and that doing so in the first place was a choice. A weak choice that he would prove himself to be far above.

If you can't be human then be more than that. Rise above it instead of drowning in it. That new choice – _everything else is transport_ – had been made decades ago and suited him like a second skin for just as long. He had been afraid of nothing. Had nothing to lose.

Sherlock let his fingers, only barely touching, trace down the length of John's lax face and over his cheek, along his jaw.

_Love. Old news these days._ The only difference – the only new data – was the realisation of just how blurred the lines with which he defined himself were when it came to John. They were less fixed than he could have ever imagined.

_You are the only home I've ever had. _

Truly pathetic.

* * *

As the darkness lost some of its density John began stirring and Sherlock rolled over onto his back, creating more space between them while closing his eyes and steepling his fingers underneath his chin, pretending to think. Much more acceptable than being caught 'staring'.

John woke slowly and then abruptly jerked up to a sitting position. A quick glance in John's direction established that he seemed surprised more than anything. Good.

"Sherlock?"

"Morning."

"Why are you – what's going on?"

"Oh, nothing much. Don't mind me," he said casually, flapping one hand in John's direction.

John got out of bed. "'_Don't mind me'?_ Jesus Christ, Sherlock! You have some serious personal space issues, you know that?"

"I have serious issues, full stop."

John snorted. "Now you're just fishing for a compliment. I'm being serious here."

"Mind if I stay?"

"Now he asks." He could practically_ hear_ the roll of John's eyes.

"Hmm."

"For God's sake, why do I even bother? Like talking to a wall… a child that doesn't speak English…" John muttered under his breath before saying, louder, "Breakfast in thirty. You _will _eat."

"Yes, Captain."

"Git," John shot back before leaving the room, stomping down the stairs.

That turned out to be a lot easier than he had anticipated. Not even a single swear word, Sherlock mused as he turned back onto his side, yawning into the pillow that smelled of John.

It was all slightly _too_ comfortable and the addict in him knew it would be for the best not to repeat the 'experiment'. Ever. No matter how cold that resolution felt.

* * *

**oOo**

* * *

John's first date with Mary – lunch at a cosy Café – started out slightly awkward.

It had been a very long time since he had been on a date. In fact, he had forgotten just how long.

John realised in that moment, sitting across from the incredibly kind Mary Morstan, that he had more or less given up on the whole enterprise without ever making a conscious decision to do so. Was he really getting that old?

But it turned out well. Very well, actually. They had already gotten the most basic personal and professional questions out of the way over tea that afternoon at Baker Street a week ago and so they spent the afternoon talking about things that actually interested them.

* * *

**O**

* * *

The second date with Mary was interrupted by fourteen texts from Sherlock about the progression of a _very_ spontaneous stakeout that Lestrade really should have – but had not – been informed of and three very persistent calls from the American doctor that Mary was writing a paper with.

John and Mary found themselves looking across the restaurant table with matching expressions. Apologetic but decided.

Dinner was cut short under mutual chuckles and in the knowledge that they had found something as rare as understanding. A sympathetic soul, John caught himself thinking. They vowed to make up for the dinner sometime very soon.

* * *

**O**

* * *

John went from the deep trenches of a very comfortable sleep to awake and vertical in what felt like less than a second and found himself sitting alone in a rumpled bed that was decidedly not his own.

There was a muted _thump_ from behind the adjacent door that he for some reason knew led to a bathroom. _Ah, of course._ John realised – halfway through a rather spectacular yawn – that he was in Mary's flat. The clock on the bedside table showed ten minutes past five.

Mary came bursting back into the room in nothing but a towel, hair dripping. "Oh, bollocks! Shit, shit, shit."

"Everything all right?"

"I'm so sorry, but I have to run. There's this professor coming in from – and I need to... his flight… Shit! And where the hell is my bra? I seriously need to do my laundry more often."

John watched in sleepy amusement as she darted from the room to answer the chime of a phone, trying to stuff a binder into a bag and getting dressed at the same time.

Mary had called him yesterday and asked if he would be interested in taking a stroll now that the rain had stopped for the first time in weeks. They had ended up spending the entire Sunday together, eventually returning to Mary's flat to cook dinner and get slightly drunk on some very good wine.

"Help yourself to some breakfast!" Mary called from the hallway before the front door opened and closed with a loud bang.

John laughed a little to himself and flopped back against the pillows. In some aspects, Mary's life was as chaotic as his.


	3. All Of The Very Best Of Us

**A/N:** A small, additional disclaimer: the chapter title is borrowed from the song _Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks_ by The National.

Also, I suppose (given what John is put through in this chapter) I should write something along the lines of: don't do drugs. I realise I treat it all rather lightly here, but it's by no means a joke.

Anyway. Onwards and upwards.

* * *

**November**

* * *

"I can't believe we're having this argument again! You've known for months and you're going to that wedding if I have to throttle you and drag your unconscious body there!"

It was obviously time to shift tactics. "Why can't you just go with that Mary woman?"

"You mean besides the fact that we've been on exactly three dates? Sherlock, you're not going as my plus one, for God's sake! You're going because they invited you. Because they _want _you there. _You_."

"But it's a _wedding_, John!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a series of deep breaths visible even from where he stood in the doorway. "No, Sherlock, it's Molly's wedding."

How exactly did that change anything? "So?"

"Are we really going over this again? Do you even remember the deal we made?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, quoting John's words from August fifteenth back to him in one breath. "'You will go, Sherlock. And you will behave. I don't care how much you have to lie, pretend or manipulate – you will do your part to ensure that Molly and Jacob's wedding is every bit as fantastic as it ought to be. Do that and I promise we will only stay as long as absolutely necessary. Do we understand each other?'"

John's defensive, angry stance softened slightly. "You do remember. Verbatim… Great."

"I don't like the deal," he stated, causing John's eyes to narrow again.

"I don't care."

Perhaps if he approached this from a completely different angle? "So, we're going together."

"As opposed to?"

"People will talk."

John blinked a few times and outright laughed at him, shaking his head in what looked like amazement. Not exactly the result he had been going for.

"Nice try, Sherlock, but believe me, people are already talking. In fact, people couldn't possibly talk more even if they wanted to."

"It used to bother you." Sherlock was perfectly aware that he sounded like 'a petulant five-year old' but it had been the last card he had to play and it had failed him miserably.

"Stop sulking and get dressed."

"Why do people make such a fuss in the first place? The whole practice is antiquated, stuck up and stupid. This is supposed to be the twenty-first century and still people – people who, by the way, wouldn't get married in the first place if they weren't convinced they wanted to remain together – feel the insipid need to pledge themselves to each other in front of a supposedly sentient deity that everyone with even half a brain knows doesn't exist! And a November wedding. Who chooses to marry in _November?_ It's a statistical outlier if there ever was one. Stupid."

There was an uncharacteristic lack of sharp retort on the topic and Sherlock looked around, realising that John had already left the room. How rude.

* * *

It was brilliant. Well, not _brilliant_ but it was as good as it was going to get.

"JOHN! I can't go!"

It took exactly thirty-three seconds for John, already dressed, to appear in his bedroom, sighing heavily. "What is it now?"

"I don't have cufflinks and you only have the pair you're wearing."

John looked the very picture of confused. "And?"

"I obviously can't wear the shirt without cufflinks," he stated, holding his wrists out as evidence.

"And you didn't think of this when you bought the shirt?"

"Technically, it was Mycroft."

"What? _Never mind_. Wear another bloody shirt, then. You have plenty of white shirts," John argued, throwing his hands up in an annoyed gesture.

"No."

"What do you mean 'no'?"

Ah, but that was what made it almost brilliant. "They're at the dry cleaner."

John opened his mouth and closed it again before pointing a finger at him. Never a good sign. "Hang on a minute. You have cufflinks. The Reichenbach case, remember? The gallery gave you a pair of diamond cufflinks."

"I don't know where they are."

"Unfortunately for you, I do," John said shortly and marched from the room. Sherlock followed and watched how John produced a small box from the bottom desk drawer, shaking it in the air with an annoyingly smug look. Why the hell did he know where those were? It had been more than five years ago.

"Now, can we drop the childishness and get on our way?"

"_A_ _wedding_, John." Sherlock did not even mind that he was begging.

He did mind the pained tightening around John's eyes. It made him look incredibly tired. "Please, Sherlock. It's just one evening. You owe her that much."

He very much minded that John was begging.

The ridiculous cufflinks were fastened and they were out of the flat in less than five minutes.

"You should wear black more often."

John gave him a short, sideways glance as he raised a hand to hail the passing cab. "Since when do you give out fashion advice?"

"Just an observation."

* * *

The last time he had been in a church was twenty years ago when Mycroft had dragged him along for their father's funeral. Detestable affair all around.

Sherlock was suddenly struck by the fact that no case had ever brought him inside a church. Maybe he should look into that. Old, hierarchical establishments almost always had more skeletons than closet space.

"There's Mike and Tracy. Let's go sit with them," John announced, nodding towards the fifth pew on the left-hand side.

Sherlock ended up directly at the aisle and proceeded to ignore John's inane socialising, the other wedding guests and the – alarmingly pink and frilly – flower arrangements tied to the end of each pew.

It was a couple of minutes into ignoring and thinking about the potential of church-related cases that Sherlock noticed a tiny creature lying on the ground right at the pew in front of them. He quickly got up and carefully scooped it from the stone floor.

However improbable, it must have fallen from the flower arrangement.

"Sherlock?" John's tone was entirely too suspicious for his tastes. Had he not already promised to behave?

He did, however, refrain from making a comment and instead held out the tiny creature in his palm for John to see. "Look. It's a bumblebee."

"A bumblebee? How the hell did that get here?"

"I've no idea. I think it's hibernating."

"It's November, Sherlock. It's dead."

"No. _Look _at it. It's obviously a queen bee. It's hibernating."

"Fascinating," John observed sceptically and turned his attention back towards his conversation with the Stamford's.

As Sherlock folded out his handkerchief and wrapped the hibernating bee loosely up in it, he received another sceptic look from John. "What are you doing?"

"I can hardly leave it here." Obvious. It would die.

John giggled, nudging him with his shoulder. "Sherlock Holmes: consulting detective, mad genius and patron saint of stray bees."

"Shut up. And it's a _bumble_bee."

"Of course it is."

The entire assembly suddenly quietened and the organ began playing. Sherlock sighed, put the handkerchief carefully (_very_ carefully) into the breast pocket of his jacket and stood up along with the other guests.

* * *

Dinner and speeches and dessert and speeches and tears and more speeches passed in a blur.

The whole thing was hideously reminiscent of past Christmas dinners, only with an actual incentive to act nice, which in turn made the whole thing utterly exhausting.

The buzzing onslaught of readily available data was relentless and Sherlock found himself – among a dizzying array of information – knowing about three affairs, a pending divorce, a murdered and swiftly replaced pet hamster, a sexual identity crisis, an untreated case of kleptomania and the fact that Molly's uncle's chess club was really a front for a completely different kind of club that catered to his taste for cross-dressing. All things he had _absolutely no wish whatsoever _to know anything about. Some of it practically begged for deletion.

When people finally stopped eating and got up and broke into smaller groups the whole affair had already lasted more than six hours. It was at that point Mike Stamford joined them at their momentarily deserted table.

"The temporary flatmates," Mike greeted in what was no doubt supposed to be a teasing tone as he sat down next to John with a slight sway. At least it was a familiar face. No need to be too falsely charming. "Enjoying yourselves?"

"No." Obvious.

"Yes, thanks. What've you done with the wife?"

"Oh, she's… somewhere… talking to someone's aunt about something. Shoes, I think it was. But how's it going? The consulting business still booming?"

"Oh, yeah. When Sherlock can be bothered to take the cases, at least."

"We talked about that and you agreed," Sherlock objected, giving John a challenging look.

_I asked: Will you come? You said: Whenever. Wherever._

Those had been all but the first words they had exchanged after his return.

"I remember," John said, even as he raised an eyebrow at him, clearly communicating that that was not what he had meant.

"Still, it's a dangerous lifestyle. All of Bart's is still talking about that incident with the woman who almost got cremated alive… I think you wrote it up as _The Murderous Minister _– "

"Creative as always," Sherlock interjected drily and received a withering glare in return.

"– but honestly, aren't you two ever going to settle down?"

What an inane question. "What for?" he sighed, humouring Stamford more than anything.

"Well, running around, solving riddles and catching criminals, that's hardly safe. You can't do it forever."

"And why not? It _is_ what I do. It's my profession, so to speak."

"Fair point," Mike conceded with a reluctant shrug and turned his attention back towards John. "But what about you, mate? I remember there was a time you were certain you'd be married and have children by the age of thirty. Run your own practice. What happened to all that?"

John laughed. It sounded off, somehow. Wrong. "I don't know, Mike. I don't know."

"Well, you're still young. It isn't too late."

"Forty-three is hardly young."

John's eyes kept flickering to the area where people were dancing at regular intervals, watching one person in particular. There were too many to tell exactly who it was, though.

"That's my point, innit? All this carefree bachelor thing you two have got going… it can't last forever can it? I mean, d'you plan to grow old and die at Baker Street, solving puzzles all the while?"

"The flat is more than adequate," Sherlock interjected and _behaved_ by not pointing out Stamford's drunken, broken line of arguing. One moment John was young, the next he was apparently fit for grandchildren.

"Yeah, but come on, Sherlock! Are you two gonna stay flatmates for the rest of your lives? Or did I miss the happy announcement?"

"You've missed nothing," John said quietly, looking as if he was miles away.

"I'm only kidding, John. I know you're seeing that doctor from GOSH…"

"Mary."

"Mary, yes."

He was suddenly stabbed in the ribs by John's elbow. "Why don't you go ask Molly for a dance?"

_What?_ "No, thank you."

John fixed him with a stern look. "It wasn't a suggestion."

"It was phrased as one."

"_Sherlock Holmes_, go up there and dance with her." It sounded very much like an order.

"You can't make me."

"Want to test that?" John retorted brusquely, not budging a millimetre.

"Anytime," he sneered right back, having no intention of losing that battle of glares. John, however, seemed to have other plans as he suddenly uncrossed his arms, face clearing.

"One dance with Molly and then we leave."

"That's not fair."

"Do I look like I care?"

No, John did not look like he cared. He looked like… granite. Why Sherlock had ever considered John's stubbornness to be a positive trait was completely beyond him. _And I am the manipulative one. Of course._

He gave John a last, silent sneer and fished the handkerchief out of his breast pocket. "Watch the bee. _Don't_ lose it."

Stamford gave him a bemused look before turning back to John once more, blabbering on about family and children and life. It was detestable and he felt like smothering the man with anything that would make him stop talking. As it was, Sherlock would have to settle for the next best thing: walking away from the inane conversation, which was exactly what he did.

Stupid, boring man with his stupid, boring life. What did he know about anything?

He walked up to the small group of people Molly stood talking to, grabbed her elbow and threw an, "Excuse me," over his shoulder as he dragged her onto the patch of floor that was designated as dancing area. He could practically feel John's disapproving glare at the back of his head.

"Sherlock?"

"Dance."

"O-okay."

Thankfully, Molly seemed perfectly happy to conduct the whole thing in silence. At least for forty-six seconds, anyway.

"John put you up to this?" she asked.

A single glance was enough to ascertain that lying would not convince her otherwise. "He brought it to my attention that dancing with the bride is considered to be part of the whole… thing."

"That's… nice of you. To do it, I mean. It's not really your thing, I imagine. Weddings…"

"No."

Molly looked away and the silence was what would probably be characterised as tense. Out of the corner of his eye he could see John cross his arms over his chest, chin lowered in a show of further disapproval.

"You look… happy," Sherlock forced across his lips. At least that did not require a lie; Molly did look happy.

"I am happy. Very happy."

"Good. I'm glad." That too, was completely truthful. He was on a roll.

"I see you've left John with Mike. They're probably talking about you, you know. When Mike gets drunk he always tells that story with – what's wrong?"

"Why would anything be wrong?" he asked.

Molly was looking up at him with large, apprehensive eyes that were immediately averted once he met them.

"No. Of course not. Sorry. It's just – you look sad… again. Just like back then."

"It was half a decade ago."

"It's not an easy expression to forget."

"Nothing's wrong."

"Okay."

The slow, jazz-inspired tune came to an overdue end and Sherlock took a step back, flashing Molly a quick smile. "I think this is where I call it a night. John mentioned something about – "

His practiced exit strategy was interrupted by a small laughter. "It's all right, Sherlock. You don't have to – I mean, I know you. Just a little, anyway. Make sure to come over and say a proper goodbye before you and John go, though."

"Of course, Molly."

From across the room Sherlock could see that John seemed to give whatever nonsense Stamford was babbling on about his full attention. He decided to take advantage of that and walked the long way around the room, approaching them from behind. He was still several meters away when he picked up Mike's slightly slurred voice.

"… not saying he will, but it's… you know, he is how he is – unpredictable. And you spend all your time with him, live with him for Christ's sake. It's not healthy for you. It can't be."

Ah, Molly was right. He was, indeed, the topic of choice. The only thing that eluded him was _what_ the conversation was about. And why John seemed to be weighed so down by it.

"I know, Mike. Believe me, I know it's not normal to – "

"Can we go now?"

John whipped his head around, obviously startled. "Sherlock."

"Astute as ever. Can we go?"

"I said we could, didn't I?" John retorted, standing up. The smile plastered on his face looked extremely false, painful almost. "Your bee."

"Thank you."

* * *

John was very quiet as they made their way home.

"I hate weddings," he eventually sneered as the clear London night glided by outside the cab's windows, just to rile a few words out of his silent companion.

John did not disappoint. "Come now. It wasn't that bad."

"Too many people. Too little purpose."

John leant his head back and laughed softly. "You are one of a kind, Sherlock. Truly."

"Thank you."

"I didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Of course you did."

"Whatever."

Before they made their way up to the flat they spent almost an hour drinking tea with Mrs Hudson. Sherlock mainly listened to his landlady and flatmate gossip about the wedding like they were both old women, but that almost-hour was by far the best of the entire day. Why couldn't everyone just let hours like those be enough?

* * *

"Are you seriously going to keep it?" John commented as Sherlock put a wad of cotton into a petri dish and placed the bee on top of it. Now he just needed to find a cool, safe place for it. Closet would probably do.

"What else do you suggest, _doctor_? That I leave it to die?" he challenged.

"It's just a – never mind. Just don't blame me when we have a bloody beehive in the flat," John retorted as he gathered various used dishes in the sink (what an irrational thing to do this time of day).

"Do you know nothing about bees?"

John rolled his eyes. "Apparently not."

All in all the day could have been worse, Sherlock decided as he carefully placed the petri dish in the bottom left corner of his closet and contemplated whether or not he should get one of those bright stickers John had lying around and put it on the closet door as a reminder. Not that he would forget, but just in case.

As he walked back through the kitchen John was still in the process of clearing the counters and had only moved on to the kitchen table as he made his way back to his room with the adhesive notes. Really, how much tidying could the room possibly need?

_Remember bumblebee. _Sherlock placed it on the closet door. There. Now there was absolutely no way it would be forgotten. He put another note on the fridge just for good measure, causing John to huff in amusement.

"From the man tidying the kitchen at _night_."

"Someone has to do it and we were out of clean cups."

"Mrs Hudson –"

"Is not our… Why are there ten unopened bags of flour in the cupboard?"

Sherlock retreated to the living room, pretending he had not heard. "Hm?"

"Never mind. I don't think I even want to know."

He ignored the resigned muttering and instead set about getting a fire started in the fireplace. There were too many thoughts and inputs that needed sorting before he could even contemplate getting any sleep.

John eventually came to sit down heavily in his armchair, bare feet stretched out as he yawned. _How domestic_.

"So, did I conduct myself adequately?"

The look John gave him was impossible to decipher. There seemed to be some measure of sadness and a great deal of warmth involved, but that was as far as he could get without asking. Incredibly inconclusive, in other words.

"Tell me about bees," John suddenly, unexpectedly, said instead of answering his question.

"What for?"

"Just tell me."

* * *

**O**

* * *

Sherlock looked up from the heap of case notes (old case, serial rapist going to trial again after ten years in prison because new forensic evidence had somehow turned up to potentially clear the very obviously guilty man) that were the product of his afternoon as the door to the flat was suddenly yanked open and then slammed shut behind a clearly agitated John. He discarded of his outerwear with angry, violent movements and stomped wordlessly into the kitchen where more angry noises of china against tabletops were produced.

Sherlock sighed, sending a few choice words in Harry's direction.

A few minutes later John came marching back into the living room, depositing an entirely unasked for cup of tea in front of him so violently its contents sloshed onto the table.

"Not doing well then, I take it," he observed, trying to rescue his notes from getting too soaked in tea.

"No, my bloody sister isn't doing bloody well!" John snapped before he took a deep breath, obviously trying to reign in his frustration, and retreated to the kitchen once more to fetch a handful of paper towels that were used to dab at the affected papers.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to take it out on you – or your notes."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's fine. No need to overdo it."

A ghost of a smile tucked at John's mouth before he went and sat down heavily at the desk, looking despondently at his own cup of tea. Sherlock threw the balled-up, wet paper towels across the room in the general direction of the kitchen without as much as an exasperated eyebrow in response.

"It's not your fault."

"Every time, Sherlock! Every time we all think she's finally going to pull through, stay on track, she just… God, I feel helpless. I'm a _doctor_, for God's sakes! It's my job to fix these kind of things."

"No, it isn't."

"Of course it is. Who else is there?"

"Unless she wants to get over it there is only so much you can do. She has got to want it herself. Trust me on this. I should know, after all."

"She does want to. I even got her to book an appointment with her old therapist, but… She's literally killing herself. Why can't she see –" John cut himself off, desperation and frustration and worry etched into his features.

"She can. I'd venture to guess that knowing what it does to you is another stress factor, fuelling the downwards spiral."

John looked as if he had just slapped him. "Are you saying that my concern is making it _worse_ for her?"

Sherlock immediately backtracked, returning his attention to the case of the mysterious forensic evidence. Much more his area. "Of course not."

"Then what are you saying? Please, any input at all is welcome at this point."

Sherlock weighed his words carefully – it was a difficult topic putting into definitive words not to mention that extrapolating his own experience was a rather unscientific idea in the first place.

"She has got to _want_ to make a change. Really want it. And she needs to accept that it's always going to be there. She's never not going to be a recovering alcoholic. Just think – how many times have you not disrupted my sock index?"

"I haven't, for more than a year."

"I know. You must be a good influence," Sherlock said, covering the truest words he had spoken in a while up in a drawl.

John was very quiet for a long time. "Was that what you did? Sheer willpower?"

"I suppose so," Sherlock allowed with a shrug. "Then again, I was never so addicted that I had any particularly difficult issues with withdrawal."

John actually snorted at that, giving him a small half-smile. "You do realise that what you tend to call 'not particularly difficult' would be enough to break most other people, right?"

"I simply made a decision and managed to stick by it, for the most part at least."

"Well, Harry isn't you and, frankly, I'm at my wits end," John sighed, looking a little lost.

Sherlock felt it tug at him in that rare, unsettling way that he had long ago labelled 'empathy'. It prompted him to search for something that could ease the weight Harry's addiction put on John's shoulders, even though he intellectually knew it wouldn't make an actual difference. It _really _wasn't his area.

"I'm sorry. I wish there was an easy solution to this." There. That was considerate. And very true.

John looked at him with unabashed surprise. "Yeah, me too. Me too."

_Me too. Too. Two. Oh, but that was…_

"There's two of them. A copycat. It's Simon Fields."

"Sorry, what?"

Sometimes it was the smallest, stupidest things.

_John. __As a conductor of light you are truly unbeatable._

"Simon Fields. He was just a student all those years ago, but now he's writing his doctoral dissertation… on the psychology of serial rapists. He probably had access to all the forensic evidence at one point - he must have! _He's _the one who planted it. _H__e's_ the copycat. Oh, but that's really not very clever. Not very clever at all. Textbook mistake. Completely elementary." Sherlock glared at his seven ideas as to how it could be scientifically proven that the 'evidence' had been tampered with. He had greatly overcomplicated things. How could he have missed it?

"Come on, John, we've got to go," Sherlock threw over his shoulder, already halfway out the door and completely ignoring the huff of resigned exasperation behind him.

* * *

**O**

* * *

"Why exactly is Lestrade on this case, anyway?" John asked as they climbed into the waiting police car (_We're bloody well not taking a cab all the way to Hertfordshire when there's a perfectly good car waiting to drive us_). "Isn't it a bit far off the jurisdiction of the Met?"

"Oh, Lestrade isn't on the case."

"I thought you said –"

"Lestrade _called_, yes, but it's not his murder."

"Right."

"Apparently he's on holiday, visiting an old friend."

"And the friend is – "

"The one who has the murder, yes."

* * *

"Jesus Christ, this is where the murder was committed?" John exclaimed as soon as they pulled up to an old, imposing house of the kind that still employed maids and butlers and groundkeepers.

"No, we're just stopping on the way to see the gardens. They should be quite lovely this time of year – all withered and decomposing." Sherlock rolled his eyes and got out of the car. Everything was grey, clammy and surrounded by nature. The murder had better be a good one.

The police constable doubling as their driver showed them through the old and eerily silent house to the murdered man's first-floor study. The heavy, ornamented door leading into the room had been forced off its hinges rather brutally – obviously the handiwork of the police.

Sherlock stepped completely into the room, mostly ignoring the body lying face down on the floor for a moment as he took in the study. He almost instantly stopped dead in his tracks.

_Surely not_. Had the police simply given up?

"Sherlock. John. I'm really glad you could make it out," Lestrade greeted with a smile, walking towards them together with what was obviously the friend with the murder. "This is DI Adrian Thomson, an old mate of mine."

Sherlock buried his hands in his coat pockets, feeling increasingly annoyed. "Lestrade, I'm disappointed."

That caused Lestrade to stop up and look back at the body with a confused frown. "What?"

"Come on. How could you miss it? How could any of you?" he exclaimed, looking around at the pitiful collection of supposedly capable professionals. "_How?_"

Lestrade merely frowned at him. "I don't – _what_ are you on about?"

"Oh, for God's sakes! It's big, it's obvious and everyone should have noticed it the moment they stepped into the room."

"It's always obvious to you, Sherlock," Lestrade complained.

"No, really. John?"

John immediately took a step back, obviously feeling the sudden attention he was getting from the assembled police and forensics team. "You want _me_ to –"

"You can't miss it," he assured, holding John's gaze as he threw his arms out slightly. The clue was in the room, not the body.

"Right. Eh…" John took a moment to look around the room and up at the ceiling, turning around on the spot to make sure all angles were covered. His eyes settled on the windows less than thirty seconds later. "The windows…" he began, pointing towards the far end of the room. "They're… there's at least a meter… missing… between the wall and the window on the left side compared to the right."

"Exactly!"

"Eh… hidden room?"

"Or a secret passage."

"That's brilliant," John grinned, looking rather self-satisfied.

"Elementary. Utterly dull," Sherlock countered, nevertheless feeling a small smile tuck at the corner of his mouth in response to John's excitement.

"Hey, I got it in one! Don't knock my deductions."

"I would never."

"What are they on about?"

Oh, right. The police.

Sherlock turned towards the body, giving it a once-over as he walked across the room to the bookcase behind which the murderess' escape route was hidden. He did not even need to take a closer look; it was so painfully obvious.

"What I'm 'on about' - what John noticed in significantly less than a minute - is that your locked room murder isn't very locked at all. It's just an ordinary, boring murder. If you arrest the wife I think you can even have it sorted within the hour."

"Why do you think it's the wife?" Lestrade asked, sounding very sceptic. "According to the son, she's in London. We haven't been able to reach her yet."

"I don't think, I know. The son is obviously lying. Your murder victim here intended to divorce his wife in favour of his younger and prettier lover and got his head smashed in for telling her as much. You'd be surprised how stubborn some of these old families are when it comes to – ah. Here we are." He pressed against the panel and a small section of the bookcase swung open, revealing the 'secret' passage.

The narrow passage led right down to the wine cellar. Sherlock snorted, imagining how – at some point in the ancient history of the house – someone must have been so fond of wine as to undertake the rather complicated piece of rebuilding.

And then, almost as if to make the whole affair _more_ boring, Sherlock noticed the lady of the house sitting huddled silently in the far corner of the dark room, clutching the candelabra she had obviously used to murder her husband with.

"I didn't – I didn't mean for – " the woman began babbling as the room was filled with police officers before she broke down completely and had to be half carried from the room.

Sherlock turned towards Lestrade, piercing him with an accusing glare.

"I'm sorry. I should've –"

"Yes, you should have. It's not a criminal offence to actually retain some of the things I say."

"I'm sorry. I'll make up for it."

"I'm counting on it, Inspector. Can we leave now or do you need a few stolen bikes to be found as well? Or perhaps someone is rigging the local pub quizzes? Or –"

"Yes, thank you, Sherlock. We get the picture," John interrupted with a pointed clearing of his throat.

"Can we leave?" If someone as much as mentioned the word 'statements'...

"Yeah, sure," Lestrade said, still looking suitably apologetic. "Dougherty will drive you back."

The constable who had driven them to the ridiculous crime scene seemed to rouse himself from a stupor, nodded once at Lestrade and then indicated that they should follow him.

"The next time you have difficulties you might want to talk it over with John first," he drawled at the assembled police and strode off after their assigned driver.

Lestrade's friend had looked quite shocked at the turn his murder investigation had suddenly taken.

"Well, that was boring," John said as he caught up.

"Complete ridiculous," he agreed, chuckling a little at John's disappointed expression. "We need to take a _left_ here, Constable," Sherlock added as their driver took a turn that would have let them straight to the dining hall.

John's phone went off. Text. John fished his phone out of his pocket, smile immediately tucking at his mouth. Text from Mary, then. He tapped the phone once and the smile disappeared, a light frown taking its place.

"What?"

"Mary's been called in. Doesn't know when she'll be off," John muttered, tucking the phone back inside his jacket.

"The perils of dating a surgeon," Sherlock joked, drawing his coat a little tighter together as they made it out into the gloomy November afternoon.

"Ha. Yeah, I suppose... It _is_ difficult to complain about a cancelled date considering what she does. To be fair, she barely ever complains when I have to cancel and I've done it far more often."

"You hardly _have_ to."

"Of course I do," John immediately countered. "Unless this is your way of saying you'd prefer I don't come along?"

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Thought not. Dinner?"

It was only half past four. "A bit early for that, don't you think?"

"Well, by the time we get home… unless…" John's face suddenly lit up, "hey, we could stay here, explore the sights, find somewhere to eat dinner and then take the train – what am I saying? A man's just been murdered. He's lying dead on the floor and I'm suggesting we go traipsing through the village…"

"You're right," he immediately agreed, keeping a serious expression in place despite the hilarity of John's appalled expression. "We should just go home. Much more… respectful." Or something. Sherlock really could not care less. What he did care about was not spending any prolonged time in what was practically the countryside. No thank you.

* * *

**O**

* * *

If asked, Sherlock would say that he had taken a cab to Baker Street, had paid the cabbie and said both 'please' and 'thank you'. Obviously. How else would he have gotten home? It was just that he did not exactly remember doing any of those things. At least not without actively trying to and his mind was far too preoccupied to be bothered with something as trifling as that. It was too loud and not making any sense and the past thirty-something hours spent at Bart's over toxicology reports, microscopes and a cat corpse, which had not even remotely resembled a cat once he had been done with it, had gotten him no closer to solving the case at hand.

The connections he was able to draw had only become ever more farfetched and jumbled; discarded as soon as they presented themselves. Not for the first time Sherlock was grateful for the fact that he had no predilection for migraines. And then again. "Dear God, what are you listening to?"

"Oh, hello. You're back," John said, twisting towards him from his armchair.

_I'm back? I'm back?! You were the one who was gone while there was a case and I needed your medical opinion about the cat and what on earth is that person doing playing violin?_

Sherlock marched over to John and snatched the laptop off his lap.

"Hey! I'm using that, Sherlock!"

"Who's playing this?"

"I - what? I've no idea. Does it matter?"

Matter? Of course it _mattered_. Any fool would know that and wasn't John supposed to have played the clarinet at some point?

"How you manage to get dressed in the mornings I have no idea."

"All right, there's no reason to be rude. Just turn it off if it bothers you that bloody much."

"They're mutilating it and that – that – whoever it is can hardly call himself a violinist."

"And you can of course do it much better," John retorted, taking the laptop back with a forceful yank.

"Obviously." Maybe that was actually a good idea. It would be calming and it was literally decades ago since he had last played the short piece.

"It sounds sad when you play it," John commented five minutes later as Sherlock put the violin down on the cluttered desk. He felt marginally more at ease inside his own head. Not enough so as not to snap at the observation, though.

"Ignoring the fact that we're talking about Tchaikovsky, which really should give away the fact that it is going to be ridiculously emotional, the piece is called _Valse Sentimentale_ for crying out loud! How do you think it's supposed to sound?"

"All right, all right! I humbly bow to your superior knowledge of classical music. Happy?"

"No. The case isn't solved," Sherlock sneered, plunging down into his armchair.

"What case? You don't have a case," John protested with a confused frown.

"Of course I do. I just said so."

"The Yard?"

"No. Client."

"And you didn't text me?" John actually had the nerve to sound offended.

"And disturb your weekend of domestic bliss with Mary? You are of no use when you're in a foul mood."

"When _I _am in – never mind. So you've got a case. Are you going to tell me about it?"

"If you insist."

"Of course I do."

"Fine. But make coffee first."

"_Fine."_

* * *

John looked like he just might be the one to get a migraine once Sherlock had finished filling him in on the case.

"So the wife, who the husband told you has some sort of terrible secret that not even he knows, is receiving encrypted emails containing complete nonsense even when decrypted that scares the living daylights out of her even as she insists its nothing, while at the same time an American couple move into the same block of flats and a cat gets itself killed by what appears to be a leaking gas pipe in the flat below, all in the span of four days?"

"Exactly."

"And you think the three incidents are linked?"

"Of course they are. They have to be. I just don't know _how_."

John drained the remnants of his cup. "Well, it beats me."

"Tell me something I _don't _know." He might have sneered more than strictly necessary.

John seemed to be in agreement as he snapped back mockingly, saying, "The Earth is only one of eight planets orbiting the Sun."

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again. He refused to argue about something as stupid as the solar system. It was not worth it. Not when John was back (_home_) for the first time in four days and he needed him for the case.

He decided to change topic completely, instead asking, "How did you end up listening to Tchaikovsky anyway?" It was not typical John-behaviour and as such merited a little curiosity.

"You've been borrowing my laptop."

"So?"

"Remember that chat we had about YouTube and recommended videos?"

Sherlock very much did. "I apologised."

"So you did… By the way, why aren't you doing that more often?"

"Why would I? I haven't done anything objectionable to any of your things for weeks!"

"What? No, I mean play the violin. It's been ages since I've heard you do that."

* * *

The case with the decrypted encrypted e-mails, the dead cat and the American couple ended up involving decrypted and decoded e-mails, a dead cat, a tragic shooting getting the police entangled in the case, an American assassin couple (John had exclaimed 'just like in that movie' the very moment the case had been solved. Sherlock had forgotten the title of the movie almost as soon as John had said it) and a mad dash through London's dark streets.

The married assassins had easily outrun the London Met. Fortunately for the police, so had Sherlock and John. Less fortunately, they had to briefly split up when the Americans did so.

The unfortunate part lay in the woman hiding in a dark alley, attacking John from behind, which was why Sherlock, John and a handful of Scotland Yard's finest were now gathered in that same dark alley, all watching as a blood sample was collected from John's arm.

"There you go: her bag."

Sherlock immediately yanked the small, black rucksack from Lestrade and began going trough it. He threw a pair of binoculars, two passports and a jack-knife on the ground and finally found what he was looking for: several small glass flasks. Only one had any of its contents missing.

"It's heroin. She gave him," he took another look at the small flask to be absolutely sure as he did the conversion from volume to mass, "25 milligrams."

It wasn't that bad, seeing as how it had not been injected directly into the bloodstream. He would probably not even need an antidote.

"_What?_" John squeaked from behind the paramedic. "What did he say?"

_Just be glad she didn't choose the cyanide_.

Sherlock placed the flasks on the ground, refusing to look at the labels that said _methamphetamine_ and _hydrofluoric acid _and _cyanide_ or think about seeking out the arrested woman and see how she would feel about having her husband pumped full of unknown and possibly lethal substances. No. He had a far more important thing to find: needles. Hypodermic needles.

There were a whole bundle of them. And they were all sterile. He even found the wrapping from the one that had been plunged into John's neck.

Sherlock allowed himself a single second of pure relief (It was all going to be fine) and then stood back up, taking stock of the situation.

John was sitting on the ground, wrapped in several shock blankets, his head dropping forwards every few seconds as if it had become too heavy for him to hold and while the paramedics had finished up, they were clearly itching to card him off for observation.

Well, that was just not going to happen. Sherlock could, after all, still remember the time John had been sent off with a suspected contusion (_I TOLD you it was nothing! And just why the FUCK do you get to NEVER listen to ANYTHING I say when I have to go to the hospital over NOTHING, wasting six bloody HOURS because you, after one word from Lestrade, decide to LIE about how bad I hit my head? Need I remind you that I am the fucking DOCTOR of this mental flatshare arrangement?_).

No, hospitals were definitely out of the question.

"I can take it from here," he addressed Lestrade, who was standing besides him, trying to suppress a yawn.

"I don't know, Sherlock," Lestrade protested. "Are you sure we shouldn't get him to a hospital?"

"It's just a bit of heroin." That was the wrong thing to say. He realised that as soon as the words had left his mouth. "Look, I know what I'm talking about. He'll be fine in the morning. I can handle it."

Sherlock did not miss the lingering look Lestrade gave his forearms before he looked back towards John's slumped figure. "All right, but at least let one of the constables drive you home. No cab is going to take you while he's in that state. And I'll need statements tomorrow."

"Of course."

He walked over to John, crouched down in front of him. "John?"

"Mmh?"

His pulse was a bit slow, but that was to be expected given the opiate. Eyes unfocussed and pupils rather contracted. Also to be expected. Clearly, the paramedics had been in agreement with his diagnosis and foregone the Naloxone. "Can you stand?"

"Sure. Of course. Absolutely."

"Come on, then," Sherlock urged and offered a hand to John, which was clumsily reached for.

John managed to get up and took three steps before crashing to the ground (where he instantly curled up on his side) despite Sherlock's hold around his arm.

The same drug rarely had the exact same effect on two people. It was why some might be addicts for twenty years while others died from the very first hit and while heroin obviously worked as a sedative, Sherlock had never seen anyone get that tired that quickly.

"Are you completely sure about that hospital, Sherlock?" Lestrade called out.

"Yes, yes. Everything's fine."

"Yeah, I can see that," Lestrade scoffed and trotted over to him. "Okay, you take one arm and I'll take the other."

Lestrade managed to coax John up from where he was lying – quite happily it seemed – on the damp ground and dragged one of John's arms around his shoulders. Sherlock mimicked the move and slung his other arm around John's waist.

"I'm up, I'm up," John protested, trying to walk on his own. No one was fooled.

"Stevens," Lestrade called out, getting the instant attention of a young police constable. "I need you to drive these two gents to Baker Street. Got that?"

"Yes, sir."

They managed to get John out of the alley and into a police car without further incident. Well, at least if John banging his head against the doorframe was disregarded.

Lestrade fidgeted beside him, the beginnings of regret edging onto his face. "Get him straight to bed and under no circum –"

"I know what I'm doing," Sherlock interrupted and quickly got into the car, closing the door resolutely behind him. The car pulled out on the deserted street smoothly, but the motion was still enough to startle John.

"Shlerock."

Given the circumstances, Sherlock supposed that was actually rather impressive. "Yes?"

"Mm'a little… heroin scared…"

That was understandable. John had never done drugs in his life and now he had a rather large doze of heroin coursing through his system, administered completely against his will and without warning. "You're completely safe, I promise. Just let it run its course."

"Heart's too slow… slow…"

"Try and relax. Take deep breaths," he tried to get through to John, contemplating whether he should do something about his lolling head.

John suddenly sat up straight, eyes completely unfocussed. He was clearly not listening, going by his strained breathing. Instead, John seemed to decide that tugging at his coat and climbing over his right leg was the thing to do. A seatbelt would probably have been a good idea.

Sherlock – trying to figure out what on earth to do with the rather strong and insistent person sitting _on_ his thigh – was poked hard in the chest. The look John gave him, face only a few centimetres from his own, was very, very serious. The completely contracted pupils only made him look graver still.

"Evvything feels wong. _Vevy wong_," John declared, administering another rather painful poke.

"Are you all right back there, sir?"

"Fine," he said, flashing the constable a reassuring smile in the rear-view mirror before pinning John's arms to his side. Stretching out the leg that John was occupying as much as possible in the confined space, Sherlock used his own weight to shove John sideways, holding him in place against his side. "Sit still, John. We're almost home."

"Wong… scary wong…" It sounded more like a whimper this time.

"You're completely safe."

John made another brave attempt to crawl over him (what on earth was he trying to accomplish?), but Sherlock did not loosen the restrictive hold he had around John's arms and torso. He nevertheless ended up with a head tucked underneath his chin and a heavy arm around his middle. "Shlerock."

"It's all right." He carefully rested his chin on top of John's head and let his hold soften until it was more akin to an embrace.

_You are pathetic, Sherlock Holmes._

Sherlock became aware of the constable's bemused look in the rear-view mirror and immediately stopped the repetitive slide of fingers through short hair.

_Utterly pathetic. You do realise that, right?_

* * *

Once they pulled up outside 221B Baker Street, John managed to fall out of the car like a rag doll and scrape the palm of his left hand rather violently against the asphalt despite the combined efforts of Sherlock and the police constable.

"You need any help, sir?"

Sherlock contemplated John – now in the process of crawling back into the car on all fours – and the stairs up to the flat, supressed his first impulse and said something to the effect of 'yes, please'.

Having deposited John on the sofa, politely thanked and then dismissed the constable, Sherlock went to pour John a glass of water and fetch some disinfectant.

The whole thing took less than a minute.

Apparently less than a minute was all John needed to fall asleep, curled up tightly on his side. On top of the coffee table. How he had even made it over there, Sherlock had no idea.

_John Watson. You might just be the single most fascinating thing on the face of the planet._

Now that the adrenaline and momentary fear had passed, Sherlock could appreciate how amusing John was being. And while he knew that laughing was probably not the most appropriate thing to do that did not in any way stop him. Not even when he spread a blanket out on top of John or stooped down next to the table to wrench a saucer out from underneath John's cheek and clean the scrape on his palm.

John remained dead to the world during the short procedure and only let out a – frankly pathetic – whimper once Sherlock tucked his arm back underneath the blanket.

"I hate marshmallows."

It was impossible not to start laughing again. Impossible not to rest a hand against the side of John's sleeping, scrunched up face. Impossible not to marvel a little at the discovery that there was a limit to how wide a smile could become. _I love you._

* * *

Hour upon hour passed before John woke. And when he did, it was by rolling across the coffee table, toppling it in the process and ending up on the floor with a loud crash, partially underneath the overturned piece of furniture.

Sherlock put down the latest issue of _Journal of Analytical Toxicology_ and watched with mild amusement from his armchair as John, sputtering and swearing, unearthed himself from table and blanket and got to his feet, swaying slightly.

"You might want to sit down."

His advice was taken without protest and John sat down heavily on the sofa, looking as haggard as he probably felt. He eventually came completely around, fear quickly gathering on his face.

"Don't worry. The needle was clean."

"Sure?"

"Completely. Even so, they took a blood sample at the scene and sent it in for testing."

John nodded to himself, seemingly satisfied with that.

"You let me sleep on the coffee table," he observed after a few moments of quiet.

"You seemed very fond of it. How are you feeling?"

"Like crap. I never knew you had to be a complete masochist to do drugs."

_Well, there is a reason why perfectly happy and well-functioning people don't become drug addicts. Not exactly breaking news, John._

Apropos drugs, Sherlock was rather curious to find out how John had been affected. "How much do you remember?"

John saw right through him. "Oh, no. No, no, no. I'm not participating in any 'how does hard drugs affect the average mind' experiments before I've had a shower and tea and – and… I'm _really_ not hungry."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at John, feeling slightly sardonic. "You don't say."

* * *

**O**

* * *

John was already up, reading the paper and eating breakfast, once Sherlock made it into the kitchen. He was greeted with a small smile. "Kettle only just boiled. Water's still warm."

"Our American killer couple is being dispatched back home today."

"Five days. That was quick," John observed, once more looking up from the paper he had spread out on the table.

"Well, I suppose it helps that the unofficial acting director of the CIA has a vested interest in seeing them behind bars," he said drily, sitting down across from John with a cup of tea.

John snorted, crossing his arms over his chest as he leant back in his chair. "You know, one day your brother will single-handedly have destroyed my faith in democracy."

"Don't tell him that unless you want a knighthood…" Sherlock snatched the last slice of buttered toast from John's plate. "Or a marriage proposal."

John pushed his plate towards him (eyeing half-eaten scrambled eggs was apparently still not something he could do discretely), his eye-roll and muttered 'just eat, for God's sake' cut off midway to make way for a thoroughly disturbed expression. "Thanks for that lovely array of mental images. By the way, why have I still not met his wife? Or you know, heard him mention her? Have _you_ even met her?"

"Of course I've met her." And that was when Sherlock realised that it was Saturday. "Today is Saturday."

"And tomorrow it will be Sunday," John drawled. "But seriously, is she locked in a tower or something? If not for your mother I would never have known about her at all, would I?"

Sherlock was absolutely not in the mood to even think about the three days they had spent at his childhood home shortly after his return from the supposedly dead. "Why are you here?"

"Excuse me?"

"You've been at Mary's the past three weekends," he elaborated around a mouthful of eggs.

"I'm not the only doctor who has to attend conferences. She's in America. Boston."

"Ah."

"Hang on, you notice when I leave the flat? Since when?"

"I always notice."

John raised his eyebrows in what was clearly blatant disagreement. "New Zealand."

"That was ages ago and I apologised," he protested indignantly.

John chuckled, leaning further back in his chair. "No you didn't."

"I went shopping. Bought you beer."

"You did? I'm afraid I don't remember... well, that was nice of you."

"And I notice when you change your routines," Sherlock stated, pushing the plate back towards John. There was no way he was going to eat cold bacon.

John gave the bacon a look that matched Sherlock's feelings on the subject, grumbling slightly as he said, "You make it sound like I have a disorder."

"Hardly. You are a man of habits, though."

That caused John to raise his eyebrows at him again, this time in surprise. "Funny how Mycroft says the same about you."

"Does he now? And when would he have had the opportunity to do that?"

"While you were in the hospital. I don't suppose you remember, but Mycroft – "

"He came by, yes. I remember," he cut John off. In fact, he was fairly sure he remembered far more than John would ever care to know. The flashbacks, in particular, had been uncomfortable.

"Yeah, well we had a little chat."

"A chat?"

"He spewed a load of nonsense and I told him to sod off. Nothing unusual," John said, shrugging with the causal indifference he had always seemed to regard Mycroft with.

And Mycroft's penchant for trying to wheedle information out of John was clearly not abating. How typical.

"My brother always did love the sound of his own voice."

"I'm not surprised. Is he still spying on us by the way?"

"Of course."

"Of course. Someone should seriously consider reading him a bit of Orwell."

"I believe he keeps a copy of _1984_ underneath his pillow."

John burst out laughing, head thrown back, and kept laughing until he had to wipe tears from his eyes. It was incredible how he could just sit there, displaying such pure emotion without any effort or reserve. It hadn't even been that funny a comment.

Sherlock knew that decades could pass and he would be no closer to figuring out the _how?_ than he had been after that first chase through London. All he could do was join in and later marvel at how John could seemingly strip him of any and all inhibitions.

_Welcome to London_.


	4. Undoing Far More Than Nothing

**December**

* * *

Sherlock distractedly paid the cabbie, surveying the crime scene as best he could.

Projectors were set up, sparsely illuminating the cold, dark night. Several police cars and two ambulances were surrounding a small parking lot, warded off with police tapes. Two bodies were lying on the ground, each covered up with a white sheet. They had obviously been at it for a while before he had been called.

"Sorry about the late hour," Lestrade greeted, holding up the police tape for him.

"The time of day is of no consequence." Especially not if you're spectacularly jet-lagged, Sherlock mentally added.

"What've you done with John?"

"He wasn't in."

That seemed to confound Lestrade more than a little, if his sudden frown was anything to go by. "With Mary?"

Where else? "You said time was of the essence?"

Lestrade thankfully collected himself swiftly, leading the way over to the covered bodies.

"I'm afraid so. The two men here are Gennaro Lucca and Tito Castalotte. Both shot in the head from quite a distance about an hour and a half ago. One of the residents taking her dog for a midnight stroll found them by chance and called it in," Lestrade explained as he motioned for the bodies to be uncovered.

"Italian?"

"Yeah. And there's one survivor. Lucca's fiancé, Amelia Barelli, is over there." He pointed towards the ambulance furthest away where a huddled person's silhouette could be seen. "She was hiding in that car by the trees but refuses to talk to us. We _need_ to know what happened, sooner rather than later."

Sherlock inspected the bodies one at a time, quickly learning that there was not much information to be gained. It was just as it looked: the two men had arranged to meet and then gotten shot by a third party. A very professional third party.

Sherlock stood back up, levelling a serious look at Lestrade. "What are you not telling me?"

"What do you mean?"

"You don't call me to a rendezvous turned murder just because the only witness refuses to communicate. At least I hope you don't." In truth, Sherlock already knew. The name Barelli was not a random one to say the least.

"All right, but this is strictly confidential. I'm _not_ telling you this, are we clear?"

"Keep talking, Inspector."

"We ran their names through the system. Standard procedure. The bloke to the left, Tito Castalotte, was put on a witness protection program five years ago and the girl over there turned up on Interpol's watch list. The file is classified beyond my clearance, but for some reason a lot of people are very interested in her."

"And you think I can either make her talk or deduce enough to render anything she has to say irrelevant."

"You're Sherlock Holmes," Lestrade said, deadpan, just as Sally Donovan decided to make an appearance, reacting to his presence with an exaggerated eye roll.

"The green area's been searched all the way to the A23 in both directions. No trace of the assailant," she informed Lestrade.

Why on earth would he have lingered? This obviously wasn't that kind of murderer. "Obviously not."

"Freak," Sally greeted. It never seemed to get old.

"Sally."

"Misplaced your blogger, have you?"

"Hardly," he commented curtly before addressing Lestrade again. "Has anyone talked to the residents yet?"

"Finally had enough of you then?"

"Don't you have something to do?" Lestrade snapped at Sally, giving him an unnecessarily apologetic look. "It's being done as we speak. Not much hope, though. It's the middle of the night, after all."

"You can forget the flats. Focus on the townhouses over there," Sherlock instructed and pointed towards the much lower rows of single houses directly opposite the small parking lot.

"Why?"

"Because the entry-exit angle of the shot fits the height of those buildings."

"All right," Lestrade nodded, seemingly accepting that without further ado. "You heard him, Donovan – get it done."

"Yeah, yeah. 'Cause the freak's word is gospel round here. _I_ wonder how he would know that in the first place. Experiments, perhaps?" Sally asked Lestrade drily as she went to follow his instructions. Sherlock refrained from telling the retreating Sergeant Donovan the exact number of people he had seen shot through the head.

Lestrade turned back towards him, opening his mouth to most likely say something Sherlock did not really care to hear. "You wanted me to talk to the survivor?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind. She won't talk to any of the officers. All she says is that her fiancé and she have been followed for a while and that she can't talk to the police. That we can't protect her."

The woman in question – Amelia – was really more of a girl. She sat in the open back-end of the ambulance furthest away from the bodies, blanket around her shoulders and a paramedic fussing about her. At first, she made no reaction to their approach but simply continued staring into the night, looking as if the world had stopped making sense. It was a look that bothered Sherlock more than he would ever admit.

"Ms Barelli?" Lestrade said, calling attention to their presence. She reacted with annoyance, giving them a hard glare.

"I already told you; I cannot talk about it."

"Do I look like the police?" Sherlock retorted just as sternly, throwing his arms out slightly.

"You are working with them."

"Because they're your best chance right now. Trust me, if they weren't I would offer to take you on as a client instead."

Lestrade sighed. "Sherlock –"

He cut Lestrade off with a sharp look. "Whom are you running from?"

The young woman looked down at her lap, hands twisting in the orange blanket. "La Camorra."

Of course. It was as he had suspected.

Lestrade took a step forward, looking confused. "What?"

"The Italian mafia out of Naples," he supplied impatiently.

"It was a hit?"

"Obviously. _Why_ are you running?"

"I can't tell you. I've said far too much already."

"These people are out to kill you no matter what. You have nothing to lose."

She looked in the direction of the parking lot with dead eyes, shuddering slightly.

"My fiancé works –" she took a deep, trembling breath that earned her another blanket from the paramedic, "he _worked_ at the harbour for a shipping company. Logistics and that kind of thing. The place is completely infested and he got into contact with the wrong sort of people. He was told that if he wanted to keep his job, then… well, I'm sure you understand. That's when I met him. We were both completely caught in their web."

"Who, precisely, are 'they'?" Lestrade inquired.

"Il Cherchio Rosso."

Sherlock grimaced. That was bad news for Ms Barelli and her survival chances. "The Red Circle."

Something looking very much like fear crossed her face. "You have heard of them?"

"In passing."

"We've been on the run for several months. I am… My father is, ah – one of the higher-ups. He disowned me when I fled to New York with Gennaro." The girl lost the last shreds of her composure, breaking down into heavy sobs. "We j-just wanted to get away from all of it. S-start over."

The paramedic gave them a look to rival John's most disapproving glare from the back of the ambulance, clearly communicating that there would be no more questioning. Lestrade got the hint as well and led the way over to a quiet spot between two police cars.

Young and naïve, Sherlock could not help but think. To imagine that they could escape simply by leaving the country. Stupid.

"What do you think?" Lestrade asked seriously.

"If you want to catch the man who did this, use the girl as bait."

"Sherlock – "

"It's your only chance to lure him out again," he said impatiently. "Not that it'll make much difference in the end. Unless Scotland Yard plans to topple the entire Italian mafia, someone else will simply take his place."

Lestrade sighed heavily, shaking his head. "I'm getting too old for this crap."

"Having a little mid-life crisis? How very original."

"Sod off."

"With pleasure. Text me if you manage to actually find the murderer."

"You don't think we will," Lestrade sighed, rubbing a hand over his face.

"No. Good night, Inspector," Sherlock dismissed himself and made his way to the A23, from where he would hopefully be able to get a cab.

* * *

He was halfway to Baker Street when his mobile announced an incoming text message.

_Just saw your text. _

_What's happening?_

_JW_

He was sorely tempted to make the case sound more interesting than it was, but decided against it. What was the point? It was not as if there was even an actual case, given the unfeasibility of taking on an entire crime syndicate (doing so once was more than enough for a lifetime).

_Nothing of interest_

_- SH_

_Where are you?_

_JW_

_En route to Baker Street_

_- SH_

_Take care_

_JW_

Sherlock had just paid the cabbie when his phone buzzed again.

_Are you home yet?_

_JW_

_Stop nagging_

_- SH_

He sighed before typing out another short reply.

_Just walked through _

_the door_

_- SH_

Deliberately making John worry was a kind of cruel Sherlock did not care to be.

_See you tomorrow._

_Get some sleep_

_JW_

_Stop. Nagging._

_- SH_

Sherlock discarded of his coat and scarf, not bothering to turn any of the lights on as he sat down on the sofa in the dark flat. He only had a few more texts to send and then the case would be concluded – whatever that conclusion might be.

_Do you have any interest in_

_Il Cherchio Rosso?_

_- SH_

The reply was instantaneous despite the late hour.

_The Neapolitan export industry _

_always had a certain appeal._

_MH_

_You might want to check CCTV _

_From Dray Gardens, Lambeth and _

_get a hold of Amelia Barelli_

_before Interpol does_

_- SH_

_It is being looked into. _

_And do refrain from getting yourself involved _

_with these people while on your own._

_MH_

_Never mind._

_MH_

_I will find them and _

_I will flush them out the loo_

_- SH_

_Relax, dear brother. _

_The only one there is the very same_

_you asked me to install._

_MH_

_Or have you changed your mind?_

_MH_

No, he had not changed his mind and Mycroft damn well knew that. The tiny camera placed just above the doorframe, overlooking the staircase and the front door of 221B served its purpose just fine and had done so for more than five years now.

Needless to say, Sherlock did not deign his brother's last text with anything but stony silence.

* * *

**O**

* * *

A veritable avalanche of dust speckles suddenly appeared in his petri dish. _What on earth?_ Sherlock looked up to find Mrs Hudson dusting the kitchen. How long had that been going on?

"_Mrs Hudson_. Is this really necessary?"

"The kitchen is in a right state. It certainly won't be you doing something about it and poor John hardly has a moment to spare as it is."

_Poor John_. He was a grown man, fully capable of prioritising his own time.

Mrs Hudson suddenly stopped up, looking at him worriedly. "Are you all right, dearest?"

"I'm_ fine_. Absolutely splendid. Or at least I would be if I was allowed some room to actually _think_," he sneered with enough malice to make Mrs Hudson leave in an offended huff, muttering something resembling 'Oh, my. I'm just trying to help' under her breath. He would apologise later. Once his crippled experiment was rescued and done.

* * *

The experiment had just reached a rather critical state in its second phase (if the chemical reaction went wrong the whole thing would turn into virtually untraceable, very poisonous gas) when the doorbell rang.

Sherlock heard faint creaks from bellow. Mrs Hudson was obviously getting the door.

"Hi, I'm –"

"Just go right up. Mind you, he's in a bit of a mood."

"Okay, I'll just – thank you."

Would the interruptions never end?

Sherlock contemplated simply locking the door to the flat. He probably would have, had it not been for the fact that he knew the visitor's voice from somewhere.

It took him almost three seconds to place it. Mary Morstan. She had – to the best of Sherlock's knowledge – not been at Baker Street since that strangely unresolved debacle about her father and the empty safe. And Mrs Hudson had obviously not met her either, going by the fact that she had mistaken her for a client.

There was a knock on the door before it opened. "Hello?"

"Kitchen," he called out shortly, not looking up from his experiment as he slowly added the last compound to the mix.

"Oh, hello again," Mary greeted. "Is – "

"John won't be back for another hour," Sherlock informed. He was almost completely sure he was not in the process of poisoning both himself and John's girlfriend.

"Of course… I must have forgotten to look at the time."

The barest hint of a tremor in Mary's voice caused him to look up and observe her closely. She was clearly distressed. Very distressed and exhausted, as a matter of fact, but hiding it exceptionally well.

_Lost a patient_. _The first one she's ever lost. _

Sherlock had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do with that.

"Tea. Scotch," he eventually said, indicating first towards the cupboards and then the bookshelf.

Mary tried to smile in response, but it came across as more of a tense grimace. "Thank you."

Sherlock simply turned back to his experimental concoction that bubbled away over the Bunsen burner, letting Mary help herself around the flat.

He was only vaguely aware of the fact that another person was moving about in the kitchen and was rather surprised when a cup full of steaming tea was placed on his left. "Sugar?"

"Two." Sherlock mentally squared his shoulders. "Please."

Mary ended up leaning against the cupboards, fidgeting slightly. Her attention was eventually caught by a note left from John. The one saying: _The curry you refused yesterday is in the fridge. EAT._

"He's a good man," she observed quietly.

Sherlock seriously doubted she knew just how good but kept his opinion entirely to himself. He _behaved_.

"John told me you solved that case with the abducted family," Mary continued. "You ended up in Mexico?"

"Hm."

"How did you solve it?"

Sherlock turned the flame almost completely down. The whole thing would have to sit for a while before the next stage. "You really care to know?"

"Of course. And, you know, a distraction would be welcome."

"It was all rather obvious in the end."

She smiled a little uncertainly. "Isn't it always for you?"

"Almost always," he allowed.

"How then? I mean, if I'm not interrupting…"

Sherlock suddenly sensed an opportunity and sent Mary a deliberately charming smile. "Of course not. This has to sit for at least an hour anyway. I'll tell you if you will teach me how to properly do sutures. Mine leak."

To Mary's credit she only seemed mildly thrown by the suggestion. "Sure. Do you have – "

"Will intestine do?"

"Of course."

* * *

John's footsteps could be heard on the stairs fifty minutes later, just as Mary (who had apparently dabbled in quite a few medical fields) was showing him how to patch up particularly deep lacerations on the hand that he had conveniently neglected to throw out.

Perhaps he could get her to properly dissect a human heart as well. An experiment for another day.

"All right, Sherlock, you better have a good explanation for why I spent almost half an hour getting stared down by three different pharmacists. I mean, seriously, how can you _possibly _need thirty two – as in _thirty two_ –" John, shopping bags in hand, stopped dead in his tracks as he reached the doorway to the kitchen, surprise written all over his face. "Mary."

He looked almost… stressed. As if the sight greeting him had unleashed some sort of internal turmoil. Sherlock raised one eyebrow questioningly at him _(what?)_, but he shook his head almost imperceptibly _(it's nothing)_. Liar.

"Is everything all right?" John asked, looking from Sherlock to Mary to the cluttered table.

"Yeah, sure," Mary said, the distress from earlier surfacing again. "I just – I hope it's all right that I came by unannounced, I just –"

_Oh, but come on now._ "She lost a patient. And I need the pregnancy tests to verify a man's alibi. Did you get the insulin and paint thinner as well?" Sherlock said impatiently in the interest of getting it over with.

John completely ignored him, his full attention and concern turned towards Mary. "Of course it's all right, but hang on – a patient died?"

"Yeah. The operation was a tricky one to begin with and the prognosis, well… It was just… she was so young and then having to tell the parents… I just really needed to be somewhere else."

"I'm so sorry. You should've called me," John insisted with a concerned frown as he went over to Mary, wrapping an arm around her as he gave her a brief kiss.

"It's all right. I'm fine. Besides, Sherlock took my mind off things."

"By hosting a little suture workshop, I see," John commented drily, giving him an exasperated look.

"Unlike _some_, Mary doesn't have a problem with it," Sherlock shot back, causing John to sigh heavily.

"For the last time, I am not going to show you how to amputate limbs, all right? I don't care that Molly told you that you could have the corpse. _I am not doing it_."

"Dull."

"Whatever," John retorted, and turned fully towards Mary. "I'm making lasagne. Are you staying for dinner?"

"I'd love to."

"Great."

* * *

It was curious, watching two separate individuals work in such easy tandem over such a mundane task as the preparation of food. It was obviously not the first time they had cooked together.

Was that what John and he looked like at crime scenes? Or was that being entirely too presumptuous?

Watching the scene before him, it struck Sherlock that they were quite alike. John and Mary, that was. Both were acclimatised to high levels of stress and hardened by past traumas. Both were unusually accepting of unusual situations.

They even _looked_ alike with their blond hair, blue eyes and relatively short statures.

Did John realise how alike Mary and he were? Did Mary?

An absurd image of the two of them trapped on either side of a glass wall, mimicking each other's movements flashed through Sherlock's mind. Perhaps eating something was not such a bad idea after all.

First, there was however the experiment to consider. Sherlock turned back towards the cacophony of human remains and his experiment (all of which he had promised under threat of mutilation to keep _far_ away from the kitchen counters while food was being made), which was finally ready for the next stage, but found that his mind strayed down completely different paths.

More specifically, he found himself preoccupied with the sudden realisation that he had all but one recollection of any past girlfriends since his so-called return, which was strange considering the silent promise he had made to try a little harder where John was concerned.

It was just one of many miniscule changes his 'death' had brought about; making an actual effort where the only person he truly needed was concerned the top amongst his priorities.

After he returned, John had initially been angry, disappointed in him and distrustful. Once the open hostility had subsided it was replaced with something far worse. John had become quiet and distanced. Disturbingly so.

Sherlock had been terrified – a fact he did not manage to acknowledge even to himself at the time – of the possibility that their friendship would not be salvageable. That he would lose John like that.

All of that had in turn triggered his own behaviour to become unhelpfully destructive and erratic – ranging from outrageously demanding to weeks of all but complete withdrawal. But John had taken it all in silence.

The erratic behaviour. The temper tantrums. Wild mood swings. Stony, catatonic silences. Verbal abuse. Danger nights.

Whatever Sherlock's own silent fear threw at him, John had simply taken it. To Sherlock's immense shock John had taken it and taken it and taken it.

It was only then that he saw how very scared and hurt John was underneath his carefully detached exterior. It was only then he realised that he was needed almost as much as he needed.

Seeing John like that had broken something inside Sherlock and it was then he had silently vowed to try harder. He would make an _effort_ for the one person he had ever and would ever – truly and unconditionally – trust. And yes, he was aware that _trust_ and _love _were perfectly substitutable.

It took that long trip down memory lane for Sherlock to remember.

And what he did remember was that John had dated four different women, including Donna and excluding Mary over the course of two and a half years. Not exactly noteworthy. And none of the relationships – if one could even call them that – had lasted longer than a month. Sherlock had not even met any of them. Not that he had any interest in doing so, the sole exception being Donna. Ah, Donna. He really regretted not having gotten the chance to meet her.

The single date John had gone on with her had been six months and eleven days after he had permanently returned to Baker Street. Sherlock had practically had to drag John across the flat and push him out the door.

_"Sherlock – "_

_"You shouldn't have asked her out then."_

_"I didn't. She asked me."_

_"Ah, girl's choice. How lovely."_

_"Why are you so insistent that I go?"_

_"Because I'm unwilling to suffer the inevitable guilt trip tomorrow if you don't. It's just dinner, John. Pull yourself together."_

_"But I don't want to."_

He had quite literally closed the door in John's face.

Besides quitting smoking (again) that had been his first act of _trying_. It had seemed like a good idea at the time; sure as he had been in his newfound conviction that John needed to settle back into a 'normal' routine.

Sherlock remembered John's hesitant, tense re-emergence early the next morning even more vividly. It had been the first time he had truly laughed in more than three years and remained, to this day, one of his single most amusing memories.

_"Don't you just look like the textbook definition of 'hangover'."_

_"Funny."_

_"Not just dinner then."_

_"Eh… No."_

_"You need me to book an appointment with your therapist?"_

_"What? Why?"_

_"I'm beginning to fear last night wasn't entirely consensual. You look positively traumatised, John."_

_"All right, I don't even – I need a shower."_

_"You already had one."_

_"Yeah, well. That was… Excuse me."_

John had flinched whenever coming across the name Donna for months afterwards, not to mention the fleeting but extremely perplexing practice of not meeting his eyes.

While the _what_ had been hilariously obvious it still eluded him to this day _why_ John had been so uncomfortable. At the time things were still not so that Sherlock had dared pulling it out of him and now it hardly mattered. Not knowing did not detract from the amusement.

"Why are you grinning like an idiot?" John demanded, dragging Sherlock back to reality. He found that he was still holding a test tube over the Bunsen burner and quickly moved it out of the flame.

"I am doing no such thing."

"Of course not…" John retorted with just a note of suspicion. "Dinner's ready,"

He sighed and wordlessly held a hand out for a plate.

"The table's set," John objected, indicating towards the living room.

Sherlock merely raised a critical eyebrow in response. "I'm in the middle of an experiment."

"Fine."

* * *

By the time he was done, the flat had grown completely quiet. Sherlock leant forward a little and saw that John was still sitting at the desk turned dinner table, used plates and cutlery in front of him. He looked lost deep in thought.

"Where's Mary?"

John jumped slightly. Definitely deep in thought. "She left an hour ago. Early meeting at work… Are you all right?"

"Why?" His tone came across slightly sharper than intended, but John did not take notice.

"You looked straight at her and said goodbye when she left. Ring any bells?"

"I did?"

"Yes," John emphasised, getting up to carry the dishes to the kitchen.

"I don't recall."

"Obviously not. Breathed in too many toxic fumes lately?" John drawled just as he passed Sherlock on his way to the sink.

"Funny, John."

"I try," he quipped back. "So… despite not remembering stuff, since when are you this accommodating to anyone I date?"

"You weren't here and she was clearly distressed. What could I do?"

"Thank you. It was very… good of you."

"I assure you, my motivations were entirely selfish."

"The sutures?"

"No. You."

That caused John to pause and turn away from the cleaning of dishes, blinking at him confusedly. "Me?"

"_You_ are far more accommodating when you're in a good mood… and, well, you seem to take the relationship quite seriously." At least that was the conclusion (and purpose) of his effort to remember John's dating history.

John shrugged, turning back around. "Well, I like her."

"I should hope so. You are dating her after all," he observed drily, the effects of his long-suffering eye roll somewhat lost as he was addressing John's back.

"No, I mean I really like her."

_I know you do. You look happy with her._ Sherlock took a deep breath, letting out a drawl shrouded in supreme boredom. "How marvelous."

"Don't worry," John shot right back, "I won't bore you with my emotional state."

"You have my deepest gratitude."

For a while the only sounds in the flat came from the cleaning of dishes and the careful scribble of experiment-related notes, but eventually John turned his domestic attentions towards the cluttered kitchen table.

"So, how much of this are you done with?"

"As long as you don't touch anything blue…"

"Right…" John carefully gathered the sutured pieces of intestine, depositing them in the biohazard part of their waste as Sherlock emptied laboratory flasks and beakers, setting them aside for disinfection.

"I was thinking, perhaps we should get Christmas shopping done this weekend," John suddenly suggested with false excitement and obvious undertones of placating 'it won't be as bad as last year' promises.

"Ugh. Must I?"

"I don't like it any more than you do," John pointed out through raised eyebrows.

"Please?"

"Oh, no. You know the deal – we figure out what to buy together and I do the actual shopping. And we need to plan New Year's."

That was where Sherlock put his foot down. Both feet. Repeatedly. "Absolutely not. Hosting that stupid party was your stupid idea. I want nothing to do with it."

"_Fine_. That doesn't get you off Christmas, though. You done with the hand?"

"You're a cruel person," he stated flatly, indicating that John could do whatever he wanted with the hand.

"Sure I am. What do you think we should get Mrs Hudson?"

"Don't you have to update your blog? Watch telly? Maybe scour the Internet for videos of cats?" Sherlock suggested derisively, fleeing the kitchen in favour of the sofa in an attempt to escape the whole Christmas conversation.

* * *

Sherlock almost wished he had kept quiet as John, upon remembering that one of his favourite Bond movies was being shown that evening, decided to take him up on his suggestion and turned the television on.

But only almost. The companionable silence of 'a quiet night in' was far more pleasant than he would ever admit – despite the fact that John had taken up the other half of the sofa, preventing him from stretching out on his favourite piece of furniture.

He spent the time revisiting some of the more difficult paths of his Mind Palace, refreshing particularly complicated pieces of information and was only vaguely aware of the movie. As such, Sherlock had no idea how long it took him to realise that John was not paying attention to it either.

"What?"

"I was just thinking…"

"I had no idea a Bond movie could motivate introspection," Sherlock drawled as he took a moment to actually see what was happening on the television that might trigger John's pensive mood. At the moment the title character was rolling around on a completely ridiculous bed with what was most likely the 'Bond girl' in what appeared to be somewhat dubious consent. Sherlock could see no link between the scene and John's mood beyond the terribly depressing fact that the thing could be so successful in the first place. He despaired on behalf of humanity.

"Nor did I…" John said quietly, not reacting to his condescending tone at all. Always a clear sign that something serious was on his mind.

"What were you thinking about then?"

"That there are a lot of things we don't talk about. That we've never even tried talking about. Really simple things, even."

"'There is nothing to say'," Sherlock quoted. That did cause John to react, his back straightening.

"What?"

"Those were your exact words when I pointed out that you never talk about Afghanistan."

"Is there anything I could tell you that you haven't already deduced?"

"That's the wrong question to ask."

"What's the right one?" John instantly countered. How attentive. Perhaps there was hope for him yet, Sherlock thought with a small smirk.

"Is there anything _of consequence_ you can tell me that I don't already know? The answer to that question is no."

"So… what are you saying?"

"Edward Hall."

John's brow furrowed for a long moment as he presumably raked his brain for the meaning behind that name. "No, sorry."

"High versus low context. You and I know – understand – far more about each other than we've ever explicitly communicated."

"Right. If you say so. I'm pretty sure you're much more high context than I am, though," John pointed out, smiling slightly.

"Maybe."

They lapsed into silence for a very long time, neither paying attention to the television. Sherlock observed John and John seemed completely absorbed in some thought, his eyes only straying from his hands to the television when an explosion or a gunshot flashed across the screen.

Eventually the movie ended, the credits rolling across the screen along with a song that would absolutely have to be deleted.

"If we're so good at understanding things left unsaid then you should never have felt the need to ask me whether I love you," John suddenly said quietly, immediately causing Sherlock to dedicate his full attention to the conversation. It was not exactly a topic he felt easy about pursuing. John obviously felt uncomfortable as well, but nevertheless kept going, still looking down at his own hands. "You should've known. It should've been the most obvious thing in the world."

Sherlock had no idea how to respond to that, but John did not seem to expect a reply.

His whole demeanour was pure warmth once he finally did look up and met his scrutinising gaze calmly. Sherlock wanted to remain right where they were in that moment, bathed in it. More than that he wanted the calm contentment of falling asleep to the sound of John's heartbeat. For a moment he craved it more than anything in the world.

"You have entirely too much heart."

"Well, it's not just mine," John retorted mildly, eyes so full of warmth it hurt. It was not a look he would have ever thought to be directed at him.

* * *

**O**

* * *

_Pick up your damn phone!_

_GL_

_The second in as many weeks. _

_Bodies stripped bare. _

_No signs of violence. _

_Out of leads. _

_Will you please come?_

_GL_

_Address? - SH_

* * *

What on earth was it with crimes being committed the most deserted places? There were plenty of perfectly adequate locations to both murder and dispose of bodies in central London. _Really._

"Would you mind waiting?" Sherlock asked his cab driver once they finally reached the remote address. "I shouldn't be more than ten minutes."

"It's your money, mate."

"Thank you." He flashed the cabbie a brief smile and handed over enough money to cover the fare up until that point before stalking towards the warded off area where a young officer hurriedly led him round to the back of the abandoned warehouse. Notoriety did come with a few perks.

The body of a twenty-something year old woman clearly working a poorly paid, sedentary job (possibly a student job) lay – stripped bare as Lestrade had already established was the modus operandi – on the ground. It had been deposited rather haphazardly; almost callously so. As if the killer had wanted to humiliate his victim in death.

"Sherlock – glad you could make it," Lestrade greeted pointedly. "Is John with Mary?"

"No. CME."

"Sorry?"

"Continued Medical Education."

"_Another_ conference? Where's he been sent off to this time?"

"Hull." He was not going to waste his breath pointing out that medical conferences and CME courses were, in fact, two different things.

"I've got an aunt that lives in Hull."

"How endlessly fascinating. Do tell me more," Sherlock drawled and crouched down next to the body, inspecting the roots of her hair. The outgrowth of the blond dye was too pronounced to tell him anything specific – unlike the texture of the dead woman's skin. "Time of death?"

"Uh – They're not quite sure yet."

"I thought not. She froze to death and was later thawed. It's all been done very neatly, but the texture of the tissue rather gives it away," Sherlock explained, inspecting the fingernails under his magnifying glass. There were tiny fragments of what looked like concrete underneath them.

"You really reckon it's been cold enough for her to freeze to death?"

Sherlock sighed, feeling almost depressed. Had he not just said that she had been _thawed_? "In a _freezer_, Lestrade. Really."

"Someone killed her by putting her in a freezer?"

There was faint bruising on the arm. Faint, but definitely of a hand. A large hand, careful but strong grip. Left hand, missing a finger.

"Obviously. I thought you said no signs of violence."

"Well there aren't."

"Then what do you call this?"

"What do I call what?"

"_This_."

Lestrade crouched down next to him, inspecting the arm closely. "Oh."

"Indeed. Can I have the body moved over?"

Lestrade called over two members of the forensics team (apparently Anderson wasn't in), who moved the body onto a plastic mat so that it was lying face down.

No marks to suggest it had been dragged. There were, however, faint traces of long scrapes on the upper part of the body's back. Ah, of course. It all made sense. The material under the fingernails was not concrete – it was filler. The scrapes had been made by hooks. Meat hooks.

"You're looking for a left-handed butcher of considerable weight with access to an industrial sized freezer of the kind where they store whole animals on hooks. Your murderer has one –" he took a second look at the body's bare upper arm, "– no, two amputated fingers on his dominant hand – the left. That should narrow the field considerably, wouldn't you say? And remember to get a sample of the filler underneath her nails," Sherlock added as he stood back up.

"How on _earth_ do you know he's a butcher?" Lestrade demanded, looking at him with complete incredulity.

Sherlock sighed, once more feeling incredibly grateful that he was not prone to migraines. "Does it matter? You know I'm right. Text me any further developments."

"You're not sticking around?" Lestrade asked, looking genuinely surprised.

"What for? Besides, I have an appointment. Potential client."

"Fair enough. Listen…"

"What?"

Lestrade fidgeted, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. "If there's anything you want to, well, talk about, you can. Talk, I mean. To me. You know that, right?"

_What was it with people?_ "What on earth would I want to talk about?"

"I don't know… You've just been kind of – well, quiet lately."

"I would think that to be cause for celebration," he retorted brusquely, making it quite clear that Lestrade was overstepping several boundaries.

"Sherlock – "

"Give me a case that's at least remotely interesting if you miss my prolonged presence at your crime scenes that much. Now, I really must be going," Sherlock dismissed himself, wrapping his coat tighter around himself against the grey winter as he stalked towards his waiting cab.

The cabbie pulled out into the sparse traffic, turning his head around to give him a quick look. "And where are we going?"

"Baker Street, please."

"I hope you don't mind my asking, but was that a crime scene?"

"Yes."

"Hang on," the cabbie exclaimed, twisting around in his seat once more, "you're Sherlock Holmes, aren't you? I recognise you from the papers now that I think about it."

Sherlock made an intelligible sound of confirmation, looking firmly out the window.

"Say, where's that other bloke? The one that blogs about you?"

"Busy."

To Sherlock's immense relief the cabbie decided to prove that there was still some measure of hope left for humanity by remaining quiet for the rest of the ride.

* * *

**O**

* * *

Sherlock almost dropped the small square of solid carbon dioxide he was handling as his hands twitched in annoyance, responding involuntarily to the sound of an umbrella handle knocking briefly against the door to the flat before Mycroft came walking into the kitchen.

"Mycroft. What an unpleasant surprise."

"Good morning to you as well, brother," Mycroft droned, holding up a large bag for a moment before placing it on the floor. Clothes. Shirts, going by the label. Sherlock nodded once in acknowledgement and turned his focus back towards his experiment.

"What do you want?"

"Is John out?"

_Ugh._ It was going to be one of those conversations – Mycroft endlessly stalling before getting to the point. "As if you don't know."

"Gone to Mary's for the weekend, perhaps?"

_Oh, for God's sakes_. "Get to the point, Mycroft. I don't have time or patience for your little games."

He was completely ignored. "He is getting rather serious about this one, isn't he?"

Sherlock sighed, carefully placing the first sample directly onto the card ice. "I suppose he is."

"Ah. You've noticed. Good," Mycroft declared, smiling at him. Never a good sign. "It must be that she understands your little… arrangement… here at Baker Street. At least to some degree."

"Hardly any of your business," he warned.

"If you recall, I talked to him while you were hospitalised," Mycroft retorted, completely undisturbed. "Apparently the man loves you."

"This _really_ is none of your business," Sherlock pressed, turning his full attention towards his brother with steely determination. He was not going to be moved in the matter.

"I warned him about this," Mycroft bit out, stabbing the infernal umbrella hard against the floor. "I thought he had understood his prior obligations."

_Prior obligations?_ Just what the hell had they talked about at the hospital? "John and Mary are none of your business, Mycroft!"

"And if he moves out?"

"Then what?"

"Will you be able to handle it or are you going to relapse into what you once were?"

That was the most direct question his brother had asked him in close to a decade. Sherlock knew an equally direct answer was expected.

"No one flatshares forever. It's bound to happen eventually and John is not getting younger. I'm pleased it's someone at least moderately tolerable," he said calmly.

As extraordinary as John was he was also achingly normal and a normal life had never been something Sherlock could offer. He had always known their arrangement to be finite. The only question there had ever been was _when?_ And now that he had seen Mary interact with John, he knew it would almost certainly be less than a year.

Mycroft looked mildly surprised, but sounded very unconvinced. "If you are certain…"

"I am."

"Sherlock…" Mycroft sighed heavily, an almost pained look flashing in his eyes for a moment, betraying the depth of his brother's concern regarding the topic. Sherlock felt very cold and very apprehensive. It was going to be far worse than he had initially thought.

"Couldn't the two of you just –"

"No," he cut Mycroft off. "Absolutely not."

"And why not? It would solve all this… mess…"

"John doesn't work that way."

"He loves you. Isn't that supposed to… matter somehow?" Mycroft's expression suddenly contorted into one of utmost distaste, as if he only then realised what he was saying.

Sherlock had to laugh a little at that. It tasted incredibly bitter. "Moriarty was right about us."

"The Iceman and the Virgin, you mean?"

"I always did think it rather optimistic of our dear parents to have two children. Together you and I might have made one whole being."

Mycroft gave him a cool, exasperated glare, clearly neither appreciating the comment nor how much Sherlock was giving away through it.

"I thought that was John's job?"

What was the point even in denying after all these years? They both knew. "It is."

"Sherlock –"

Enough was enough. It was a pointless conversation and entirely too uncomfortable to drag out further.

"I want your word, Mycroft. I want your word that you will stay away from them. You will not do anything to interfere. If she gets transferred somewhere or John gets dragged away for one of these little talks I will find out and I will make your life hell. I will never forgive you."

This time it was anger contorting Mycroft's face. "For goodness sake! Of all the times, now has to be when you decide to prove the world wrong and develop a selfless streak?"

"_Your word_, Mycroft!"

There was a long pause in which neither backed down before Mycroft finally broke eye contact.

"You have it."

"I better."

Mycroft only grimaced briefly in response and took to wander aimlessly around the living room in a less than stealthy attempt to deduce more about his mental state from the state of the flat.

"Composing, are we?" he eventually asked, looking at the violin bow rather than the sheet music Sherlock knew he had left somewhere on the desk.

"The criminal classes have been exceptionally boring lately," Sherlock replied as apathetically as he could manage and placed another small sample unto the card ice (cell destruction occurring much more rapidly and in a much more pronounced pattern).

"Well, no one forces you – "

"The answer is still the same." There was no way he was ever going to work on Mycroft's side of the fence and they both knew it. Nothing ever got done at the top of the world.

"Hope springs eternal," Mycroft drawled.

"Resorting to overused idioms? You must be as bored as I am," he shot back.

"I won't deny that the office – was that a poisonous spider under the mug?"

Experiment forgotten, Sherlock hurried into the living room. "What do you mean, _was?_"

"I may have inadvertently set is loose."

That was not good. That was _very_ not good. "Well, find it!"

"So it is poisonous. How lovely."

"What did you do with it?"

He had only procured it last night – under great difficulties, no less – and only had it in the flat in the first place because he knew John wouldn't be there to find out.

"I hardly _did_ anything besides lifting the mug," Mycroft objected as Sherlock began going through the cluttered desk, lifting piles of papers out of the way. It had to be there somewhere.

And it was. It was sitting on Mycroft's elbow, looking as startled as a spider possibly could.

"Mycroft –"

"How poisonous was it again?"

"Lethal. No known anti-serum."

And Mycroft stepped on it. He simply brushed it to the floor with his umbrella and crushed it against the carpet.

"_Now_ how am I supposed to finish the experiment?"

"Just be glad I'm not going to inform John," Mycroft retorted brusquely. There was no guarantee that they were solely talking about dangerous and loose spiders.

"You wouldn't." It was very much a threat, both concerning the spider and… everything else.

"No," Mycroft grimaced in reluctant agreement, "but you should. At least _consider_ telling him."

"Tell him what exactly? John is as aware of what he means to me as you suddenly claim to be."

"Really? He knows you love him? That you are," another grimace, "in love with him?"

Oh, the wonders of conversing with his dear brother, Sherlock thought bitterly. He never truly knew where they would end up once they had first veered off course. "Being _in_ love is quite beyond my capabilities and you know it."

"Please," Mycroft scoffed. "Don't pretend that any of your usual eccentricities apply to John. _Tell_ _him_, Sherlock."

"There is _nothing_ to tell."

Mycroft raised a disdainful eyebrow at him. "You always were such a transparent liar."

"Patently untrue."

"You need him."

"Not necessarily in the same flat." And that was the complete truth. Living _with_ John had been difficult to adjust to. Living without him would simply be akin to getting used to a slightly colder climate. He had done that before. Had lived in far colder temperatures before. Easy peasy.

"You love him," Mycroft pushed on with unrelenting determination.

_You're crossing the line, brother._

"He's my friend."

"Your only friend."

"Same thing."

"The only one who really, truly matters."

"Do get to the point."

"You would hand him the world on a silver platter, wouldn't you?" Mycroft's contempt was palpable and before Sherlock could restrain himself he was snarling out words he had never meant to say out loud, had never even known were there. "Perhaps because he, unlike you, deserves the world. He's _earned _it."

"Does he know that? Does he know that there is nothing at all you would not do for him? That you would gladly give him absolutely anything?" Mycroft's gaze swept over him from head to toe so quickly it would have been unnoticeable to anyone else. "Even yourself?"

"Enough."

"That you still feel so guilty - that you feel _so much_ you would sacrifice everything for his _happiness_?"

_"Enough."_

Mycroft finally sighed and looked down at his umbrella again. "Might I at least know why not?"

"I don't need more," Sherlock spat out through clenched teeth, hating every inch of his brother's detached face.

"Needing and wanting are two very different things."

"Is that so?" he countered mockingly. "Well, in that case I don't want more. _Goodbye_, Mycroft."

Mycroft heaved yet another heavy sigh. How disgustingly melodramatic. "We're getting nowhere with this, are we? Very well. I will see you on the twenty-fourth, then. At noon."

"Of course. We mustn't forget the annual torture," Sherlock sneered, relaxing slightly. At least this part of the conversation was bound to be the same as always.

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Try and behave this year, would you?"

"I will if they will."

"_Try_. And now that we're at it – sign the card for Mother." Mycroft produced a smallish Christmas card from his suit pocket along with a pen and held it out towards him with a completely unreadable expression.

"Too lazy to forge my signature?"

"She'd notice."

"Then perhaps you shouldn't have done it in the first place," he observed, signing the card.

"Perhaps you shouldn't have dropped out of University and stayed away from home for five years. Not to mention your recent three-year absence," Mycroft added with a raised eyebrow. They were spectacularly off script again.

"Don't even start. Mummy knows full well that was _your_ fault."

"As I remember it, you called me. _You_ initiated the… negotiation."

"All I asked for was twenty-four hours. You were the one who set the price, Mycroft. Mummy knows that."

Mycroft looked down, brushing non-existent lint from his trousers. "I apologised."

"To some."

"I kept him alive, didn't I?"

He thrust the card and pen back towards Mycroft with as much contempt as he could possibly stuff into the move. "Barely."

Mycroft's brow furrowed, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Have I really failed you so badly?"

_You were the one person who understood – who knew – and you were supposed to have been there. You were supposed to be the one who explained and who let me know I wasn't alone with it. I was supposed to be able to trust you._

"Yes."

"For the hundredth time, Sherlock, we were just boys."

Mycroft looked far more composed than Sherlock felt. It was incredibly unsettling. He had always been able to let the verbal sparring with his brother roll off his back, but this time, somehow, it was different. He felt wounded, at a disadvantage and not up to par. _Damn your heart, John_.

Sherlock tried to compensate by taking a step forward, letting his face contort into a grimace of pure loathing. "You were a coward," he snarled, "using me so that you might fit in."

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "Your stubborn unwillingness to adhere to social norms is hardly something you can blame me for."

"You exploited it to further your own ends!" he shouted, taking another step forward.

"I acted the part that was expected of me!" Mycroft shouted back and stabbed his umbrella hard against the floor.

"And you never _stopped_ acting. You were supposed to be my brother!"

"You started building walls before you could even properly pronounce your own name!"

"_Of course I did!_ You weren't exactly there and how was I supposed to know I would ever – " he cut himself off, but knew it was too late. This time Mycroft would most certainly appreciate how much he was giving away.

"That you would ever find someone like John? That you would ever have someone accepting you – _loving_ you – for everything you are? It seems, dear brother, that we have come full circle."

He wanted to punch Mycroft, bash his face in until the ice-cold, solid marble of him cracked and crumbled.

More than that he wanted to be like his brother. He wanted to genuinely not care, instead of having to work so damn hard for it. He wanted not to wonder whether there was something wrong with them, but take it for granted that there wasn't. He wanted Mycroft's solidity instead of the veneer he had to make due with.

"Leave, now. I won't ask again."

"Sherlock, you can't just ignore –"

"Just this once," he interrupted, feeling terribly off kilter, "leave it alone. Keep your hands out of it and stop pretending that you know my heart."

Sherlock was shocked by the words leaving his own mouth. Much more shocked than Mycroft's open, slack expression. But Mycroft did not understand and he needed to realise that. At any cost.

Sherlock did not simply need John. What he needed was John's friendship, his compassion, his understanding and his trust. He could not lose that. And he would, if John's hand was forced or his choices manipulated with. John would resent him.

"Please, Mycroft."

The only thing that mattered was that the way John regarded him now would never change. That his regard would never fade. Everything – and everyone – else was circumstantial. Transport. A means to an end. An end in which John would always call him his best friend.

"Please."

Mycroft sighed a final time before he silently made to leave, pausing for a moment to let one hand rest on his shoulder. Sherlock could feel the full weight of the look he was given, but refused to meet it. The hand on his shoulder fell away in complete silence.

A small shudder ran through him once the door finally closed behind his brother.

Mycroft was wrong. Completely wrong. And even if he weren't what was he supposed to say?

_Would you kindly consider never leaving my sight? Why? Oh, because I'm a possessive, obsessive and arrogant addict who has decided that I need you a lot like oxygen and puzzles. So if you wouldn't mind terribly I'll just go ahead and deprive you of any semblance of a normal life. In fact, of any kind of life that doesn't revolve so entirely and exclusively around me that I'm allowed to take anything I feel like, whenever I feel like it without ever offering anything in return. Problem?_

Yes, he could see that go over well.

He needed a cigarette. High tar. At the very least.

* * *

**O**

* * *

Christmas dinner. Atrocious.

Sherlock took advantage of the fact that their mother had temporarily left the table and made sure his feelings on the matter were on clear display when Mycroft sent a pointed look towards him and his untouched plate.

"Quand partons-nous?"

"Nous partons demain matin," Mycroft said calmly, lifting his chin.

"_Mais tu rêves_," Sherlock sneered back. He was _not_ going to stay the night. Mycroft knew that perfectly well. He might as well drop the charade immediately.

"Sherlock –"

"Je rentre." It was a mostly hollow threat. Unless he stole one of the cars he had no real way of getting home without Mycroft.

"Non, Sherlock. Pas encore."

"Quand?"

"Patience," Mycroft droned, drawing out the last, nasal syllable unbearably.

If anyone had asked him in that moment what he would do if he could rid the world of one thing the answer would be 'extended family'.

If anyone were to ask him at almost any other time the answer would be 'labels' or 'social conventions'. Not that Sherlock, if actually asked, would be inclined to answer truthfully.

_John. Where are you?_

* * *

**O**

* * *

The space is endless, the aesthetics flawless. As vast and black as an entire Universe void of light. Smooth. Even. Black ice so solid skulls can be crushed against it.

There is no need to sort knowledge or memories. It is all there. Everything at once, but unobtrusive. It is weightless perfection.

Emotions do not need classification or analysis. They are not there.

Except.

Except for a large sinkhole in the middle of the black ice. Or maybe it is not in the middle at all. It is difficult and rather irrelevant to concern oneself with things such as distance and relative position in the face of infinity – of possessing infinity.

It is a bottomless abyss into which everything falls. Sherlock remembers it, though he has never seen it like this before. He has always thought it to be pure emptiness. A void into which he can stuff everything from unwanted information to emotions to the inherent weaknesses of the human condition and from which nothing can ever escape. A black hole.

He now knows it is the place in which a cold emptiness breeds and from which loathing and destruction escapes in unpredictable bursts. It is a black hole no longer.

Emotional awareness is a painful distraction.

And then the emotional awareness is suddenly present, solid and serious.

John is standing between him and the sinkhole, his chequered shirt and woollen cardigan and jeans and suede shoes the only colours interrupting the icy darkness of endless, formless perfection.

Sherlock walks towards him, stands right in front of him and looks into his silent eyes. "Do you see?"

Does he see how perfect the place is? How it offers unlimited resources and clarity? Here there is no need for going to the store to buy milk or for interacting with anything lesser than his own mind or any need for external stimulation now that it is in every molecule surrounding him. No need to conform. No limitations. No weaknesses. No transport. Transport does not even exist.

John remains completely quiet, looks at him seriously.

"_Do you_ _see?_" His voice roars and stretches out into the vastness surrounding them.

John does not react at all, except for the occasional blink of an eye.

He captures John's face firmly between his hands and captures John's lips even more firmly with his own. It is a bruising kiss meant to destroy and he uses the entire force of it to push John backwards, step by step. John offers no resistance at all and moves towards the abyss easily, copying each of Sherlock's steps forward with a backwards one.

John ends up right at the edge of the immense, bottomless hole. The black ice is slippery here, as cold as John's mouth is warm. Sherlock bites down hard on John's lower lip, the metallic taste of blood filling his mouth, and takes a final step forward.

* * *

Sherlock woke abruptly to the impenetrable darkness of his room, drenched in sweat and stomach heaving. He staggered to the bathroom, holding unto the walls for support and only barely made it to the toilet before throwing up.

There was not a whole lot in his stomach to throw up, but the terrified nausea that had woken him with all the delicacy of a brick wall was slow to abate. Only when he was spitting out pure bile did his stomach settle and Sherlock let himself tilt sideways until he was sitting on the floor.

He made no effort to move, but rather let his drenched clothes and the cold tiles numb the urge to seek out his sleeping flatmate and somehow undo the nightmare. It wouldn't do. _It wouldn't do_.

Eventually the chattering of his teeth resonated the scared racing of his mind.

He felt sick to his bones.

* * *

**O**

* * *

He had snuck off to the rooftop for a little quiet. Not that actual quiet was possible what with the fireworks going off everywhere, but it was a different kind of noise from the decorated flat full of chatter and laughter and clinking glasses and that was enough.

"Sherlock? You up there?" John's voice called from the open hatch leading up to the roof, followed by the appearance of John himself. Or rather, the upper half of John – the rest of him remained on the ladder inside 221B.

"What are you doing up here?"

"Enjoying the view," he said, indicating vaguely towards the fireworks illuminating the dark sky in irregular, crackling bursts. He had thought – given the fact that John had been quite absorbed in the role of playing host – that he could sneak away unnoticed. No such luck, it seemed.

John carefully stepped completely up on the roof, a tense frown on his face. Sherlock sighed to himself; he knew perfectly well where it was going and he did not really have anyone to blame but himself.

"Sherlock – "

"Relax, John. The roof's flat plane is close to four meters wide, in case it has somehow escaped your notice." He was even standing right next to the chimney, able to hold onto it if necessary.

"I know…" John held out a hand, motioning for him to come closer. "I know, but just – just come over here and let me give you a hug."

Sherlock could, despite himself, not help but grin broadly in amusement at the unexpected (and probably slightly drunken) request and went over to wrap his arms around John in what could almost be called a practiced move at this point.

It was funny, Sherlock mused, how that particular gesture had remained a permanent fixture between them after his autumn stint at the hospital.

"Happy New Year, John," he said quietly against the side of John's head and let go again, taking a small step back.

"Everyone's getting ready to go down and watch the fireworks."

"I think I might stay here for a little while," he answered the unasked question and sat down on the firewall separating the roof of 221B from that of 223A. Sherlock wondered whether John was aware that he was rubbing his sternum with the heel of his palm as if to ease some sort of pain. The urge to do or say something profound and reassuring was fleeting but entirely overwhelming. He firmly ignored it.

"The view is rather great," John said and sat down beside him, crossing his arms over his chest. "Although, I think you should get cracking on that New Year's resolution right away."

"I don't make New Year's resolutions," he objected, thoroughly confused. John was nowhere near that inebriated.

"Well, this year you did," John stated very calmly and very firmly.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes. You promised to every now and then remind yourself that your best friend is fucking terrified of losing you and that you'll make an effort to act accordingly."

"Which means no prolonged rooftop excursions, I imagine."

A firecracker exploded in a burst of red light a few meters above them, making John tense almost imperceptibly for moment at the sound and flash of light. A war veteran still.

"Perhaps not while people are firing off fireworks like there's no tomorrow," John said lightly, obviously trying to go for levity and falling somewhat short of the mark. Sherlock hated how familiar the tired expression on John's face was. He looked worn out and unspeakably sad and Sherlock knew, in that moment more than ever, just how lucky he was.

"What I've done… what I've put you through, there's no making up for that, is there?"

They never talked about those three years. Not beyond the first days and weeks after he had revealed himself to be alive. In fact, Sherlock had made an art out of not mentioning it.

"We're here, aren't we?" John shrugged, looking out over the rooftops. "Besides, it wasn't exactly a walk in the park for you, either."

"No. It wasn't."

"Truth be told, the only thing I couldn't bear would be for you to stop being you. Just… never stop being you."

"You really do love me, don't you?" The words were out before his mind had even registered that he was going to say anything.

"Like entropy reversed, darling," John retorted drily, grinning crookedly at him with incredible mirth before Sherlock had a chance to feel too chagrined about his own slip.

He almost fell down from the low firewall; so sudden was the fit of laughter rocking his entire body. John snorted and rolled his eyes, which only caused him to laugh harder. It felt like catharsis.

_Like entropy reversed. What a sloppy interpretation of the second law of thermodynamics. _

"Oh, John," Sherlock eventually got out between fading chuckles. "What would I do without you?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. You'd be lost without your blogger," John huffed jokingly.

Sherlock wiped away the last laugh-induced tear from the corner of his eye and stood up, feeling, for inexplicable reasons, more like himself than at any other point in the past month. "Come on, we had better go back down before they send a search party for us. Again."

"Don't remind me," John grumbled and threw him a stern glare before making his way down the ladder.

"It could have been worse."

"Easy for you to say. You weren't the one who got bitten by giant, starving rats."

"They could have had rabies," he pointed out and closed the hatch behind him, jumping down the last few steps of the ladder. "Or bubonic plague."

"Yeah, well, it still hurt like hell," John threw over his shoulder as they made their way down the stairs to the flat.

"I told you to be careful."

"You were the one who pushed me down to them!"

"What's your point?"

"You mean besides the obvious? Because getting us locked up in a medieval prison cell with no signal wasn't exactly one of your brightest moments."

"Shut up. It ended just fine."


	5. Everything, Goes Back To The Beginning

**A/N: **I have managed to confuse at least a couple of people with the last chapter. Is it 'slash'? Is it not? Is it going to be? The best answer I can possibly come up with is: Whatever you want it to be.

I truly haven't thought much about it nor has that necessarily been what I have wanted to pursue, but I would encourage everyone to read it just as they want to.

I'm sorry that I can't seem to be more precise, but hopefully I have managed to clear it somewhat up in this final chapter.

Speaking of final chapters, **thank you** to all who have been and are reading the story. And comments, criticism, corrections of mistakes made by me etc. are of course more than welcome.

* * *

**August**

* * *

Spring came late to Britain that year, but somehow, miraculously, Sherlock's bumblebee survived. The tiny creature that John had all but forgotten about was released into the wilderness of Regent's Park one late April morning, buzzing merrily from the handkerchief it had been transported in to the nearest daffodil where it landed heavily.

It had been a beautiful day, the first one where spring was truly in the air. Sherlock had squinted at the many people out and about taking advantage of the clear, refreshing sunshine and looked vaguely displeased with the whole scenario as he turned his coat collar up. John had simply smiled at the display. It was more often than not small moments like those that caused him to remember just why Sherlock's long absence had been so crushing.

Summer came even later and surprised everyone with a shower of rain before the temperature finally settled just shy of twenty degrees in the first week of August.

Time had passed with surprising ease. He was Sherlock's partner in (solving) crime, Mary's boyfriend and general practitioner at the clinic and before John noticed it, more than seven months of the 'new' year had passed.

In retrospect, those months reminded him a lot of the time just after Sherlock and he had first met. One thing took the other seamlessly, leaving no time to stop up and actually reflect on what was happening. All he could do was go with it and ingest enough caffeine to compensate for the lack of sleep.

Time, John decided, was relative as all hell.

Unlike last time, it was not a bomb strapped to him at a deserted swimming pool that forced him to stop up and take the time to really look at what his life had become. This time it was something as simple as a conversation. More specifically, it was Mary bringing up the state of their relationship. It was Mary asking, suggesting, proposing, that they consider moving in together.

It had been quite the reality-check.

He liked Mary. He was in love with her. He loved her. Of that John had absolutely no doubt. And yet the thing around which he orbited was still Sherlock bloody Holmes. The centre of his universe had not changed and John knew the only reason the situation worked at all was that Mary had a similar force in her own life: her work.

It had been strange in the beginning, but now John was used to the fact that Mary had to cancel on him because of work almost as often as he had to cancel on her because of Sherlock.

And time had passed so swiftly.

Of course they could not continue like they had forever. Of course Mary would want to settle down; make a home. It would be the natural progression of their relationship.

He should want it too, John supposed. It was not like he was getting any younger and he loved Mary. Besides, it was not as if he had not thought about it himself. Almost from the very beginning of Mary's and his relationship John had found himself lost in thoughts of where it was all heading.

And John knew, with disquieting certainty, that if he was not able to do this with Mary he never would be. That knowledge, that realisation, frightened him like almost nothing else ever had.

More than war and bullet wounds and Bart's rooftop, John Watson was scared of what it meant if he could not bear living apart from Sherlock Holmes.

All those confused thoughts did nothing but fuel the roaring unease that had taken hold of him ever since Mary had brought up the topic of moving in together.

It was a feeling he was not accustomed to and could not find a name for. It was not quite panic and somewhat different from despair. Most of all it felt like being under very high levels of stress whenever his mind strayed towards the subject.

He was at an impasse, a crossroad, which was why John had decided he needed to talk to someone who had a normal life with normal people, but who still knew what he was talking about – why he found himself at the pub with Lestrade one Saturday evening, precisely one week after the tentative conversation with Mary.

"It's not an all-or-nothing deal, though, is it?" Lestrade said slowly, thoughtfully, before taking another sip of his pint. "I mean, what is there to say that you can't continue solving crimes and the like with Sherlock? From what you've told me, Mary seems all right about it."

"I know and she is, but – it's… you know Sherlock, what he's like. He's not going to wait around while I go to parent-teacher meetings or – "

"Whoa, whoa, hold your horses, mate! You haven't even moved in with her yet."

"She wants children."

"Really?" Lestrade looked genuinely surprised. "From I've gathered – I realise I've only met her twice, but she just strikes me as more of the married to her job kind of type."

Lestrade's choice of words and the accompanying memory had John choking violently on a mouthful of beer.

"What? What did I say?" Lestrade demanded as soon as John stopped wheezing.

"Nothing. It's nothing," he insisted, waving the question away.

"If you say so… What about you, though? You want children?"

"Honestly? I used to imagine that I would, but I haven't actually thought about it since before – well, since before Afghanistan to be honest."

"War changes people?" Lestrade suggested with the familiar hesitancy of people nervous about offending him and his military service by being presumptuous.

"It changed me that's for certain."

"And now you're concerned this is going to change you as well." It was not a question.

"It would be very different."

"Different won't necessarily be bad."

_Then why does it feel so damn unsettling?_ "I suppose not."

"You are afraid you're going to drift apart." That was not a question either. John was beginning to see how Lestrade had made DI in the first place.

"I suppose, yeah. I know we're not going to stop seeing each other – he's my best friend after all, but – "

"I think it's time you accepted the fact that he's more than just your best friend," Lestrade interrupted.

"Please, not you as well," John sighed heavily. "We're –"

"No, no. Hang on. That's not what I meant," Lestrade immediately cut him off, holding his hands up in a placating gesture.

"What _do_ you mean, then?"

"You love him."

John did not even think about arguing the point – it would only defeat the purpose of seeking advice. "And?"

"And I think you need to sit down and figure out whether or not you have anything left to give that isn't already Sherlock's."

John felt his shoulders tensing in protest, but damn it if that did not hit close to home. "Greg –"

"I know, I know, but the only other time I've seen you look so damn miserable as you have lately was when we all thought the git to be dead, not to mention that Sherlock – "

"What about him? Has he said anything?" Surprise instantly caused John to sit up a little straighter, scrutinising Lestrade's expression.

"Nothing like that. You know he doesn't really talk to me; still doesn't trust me," Lestrade grimaced.

John felt he should probably say something to contradict that, but they both knew it would be a lie. While Sherlock fully trusted Lestrade in a professional capacity he had been exceptionally careful not to divulge anything of an even remotely personal nature ever since his return from the assumed dead.

"What about Sherlock, then?" John asked instead, his tone a tad sharper than intended.

"He's just… quiet on the occasions where you're not accompanying him to crime scenes. Has been, actually, for months. Lately he doesn't even bother to insult my people. It's almost scary."

"That does seem pretty out of character," John agreed quietly, once again fighting down the uneasy feeling in his gut that the mention of Sherlock's new habit of more often than not neglecting to inform him of cases if he was not at Baker Street when they landed in Sherlock's hands never failed to elicit in him. John hated it, but Sherlock had merely shrugged when asked about it, caustically promising not to let him miss anything _really_ interesting.

"Yeah. But, listen. I've just got one last word of friendly advice," Lestrade said, pushing his empty glass aside. "I loved my ex-wife. Still do, in some ways. Stupid, I know, but that's how it is. The thing, though… a lot of the reason for all our troubles – her affairs, the arguments, the… you get the point… I put my work with the force before her. That's the bottom line and that's what tore us apart and let me tell you, I saw it coming a mile away, but didn't do anything about it. I didn't change anything about the situation because, deep down, I didn't want to. My job would always come first. There would always be some homicide or other thing that I would be unable to walk away from. At the end of the day _that's_ where my commitment lay. Where it still lies. And love is all good and well, but without commitment…" he trailed off, shrugging as if to say _look at me_. "You need to do what makes you the happiest. Anything else is unfair to you. And to Mary."

John could not help but stare a little at Lestrade, thinking that he had seriously underestimated the man. Then again, being in close proximity to Sherlock Holmes did have the effect of making everyone else appear to be mentally impaired slugs.

"How the bleeding hell did you become so insightful?"

Lestrade smirked at him. "I had a great therapist after that divorce of mine. Told me a few harsh truths."

"Ah, I see… I hear what you're saying. Doesn't make it easy, though."

"I know, mate. Believe me, I know. You have my deepest sympathy."

John was struck by how calm – how damn accepting – Lestrade was of the whole thing. As if he had also seen that coming a mile away. "You don't think this is weird at all?"

"Of course it's weird. Wouldn't be Sherlock Holmes if it wasn't, though, would it?"

"No. It really wouldn't," John agreed, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "When exactly did my life stop making any sort of sense? For God's sake, I'm not even actually – "

"Gay?" Lestrade finished for him with a wry smile. It sounded incredibly beside the point and John saw that Lestrade knew just as well as he did that that was not what it was about. It did not matter in the case at hand; did not factor in with what he was trying to figure out.

He recalled, with perfect clarity, Sherlock looking at him with an annoyance that bordered on disappointment, flapping his hand as if to bat away a persistent fly as he groused about some _superfluous data_ or other. Unless pertaining to a case, certain things simply did not matter in the micro cosmos that was 221B. Most of the time it was incredibly freeing and had also, one long ago evening, prompted John to blurt out that Sherlock had to be just about the least prejudiced person on the planet.

"You know, perhaps you two _should_ just shag. He might be the exception that confirms the rule," Lestrade said after a few moments of silence.

John settled for giving him a very sceptic look, recalling how Sherlock would routinely insist that _allowing for exceptions disproves the rule_.

"Who knows?" Lestrade argued flippantly. "Think of it as an experiment – testing the limits of Stockholm Syndrome or something. That should be right up Sherlock's street."

"Funny, Greg."

"Just trying to lighten the mood."

John did not in any way feel lightened and only managed to keep quiet for a few seconds before the words came rushing out of him again. "It doesn't make any fucking sense. It's not normal. Christ, I don't think it's even healthy to be that… dependant on another person. It's insane. It's completely insane."

"Well, what can you do about it?"

"Go back in time?" he suggested feebly.

"Would you, though?"

"No." Absolutely not. Without Sherlock… John did not even want to think about that, did not want to remember how he felt in the time between returning from Afghanistan and meeting Sherlock. Did not want to remember what seeing the rest of his life without Sherlock stretched out before him felt like.

"Cheers to that, mate. I hope everything works out for the best, whatever it might be. I really do."

"Cheers to _that_."

* * *

**O**

* * *

Two days later John's life had managed to move out of the proverbial frying pan and into to the proverbial fire.

_"I know you can't move from London."_

Lying in bed in the middle of the night, thinking back on his chaotic Monday, John knew that Mary found the idea of letting the offer in Boston slide as difficult as the concept of changing the established routine at Baker Street was for him. But she would be willing to do it, if he was willing to match the sacrifice.

_"I won't lie to you. I want the job. I really want it, but I also love you, John, and I am willing to put that first. What I need to know is that I'm not alone in it."_

Was that the real disparity in their relationship? That Mary was willing to make that sacrifice while he was not? And just what decision could either of them make considering the fact that they both openly acknowledged the very real existence of a sacrifice in the first place?

He needed time and now there was none. The 'once in a lifetime' job offer Mary had received came with a deadline and he had a choice to make. A choice much more about the rest of his life than the immediate future.

* * *

**O**

* * *

There was a strong fire burning in the fireplace and Sherlock was puttering about in the kitchen, conducting a complicated experiment that required both safety goggles and fire (or acid) proof gloves and occasionally mumbling out strings of what sounded like chemical reactions. It was a relatively quiet, unremarkable evening at Baker Street of the kind that was mostly spent in familiar, easy silence.

John could not for the life of him imagine an end to it. And wasn't that really all the answer he needed?

He had not talked to Sherlock about the conversation he and Mary had had about moving in together. Nor had he told Sherlock about the position Mary had been offered at one of the best paediatric hospitals in the world.

Mary had to either accept or refuse the position in America no later than Monday. It was now Friday.

Time, John decided with emphasis as he thought back on the past week, was relative as all hell.

It had been a week full of introspection and soul-searching and struggling with heavy thoughts and indefinable concepts.

It had also been the week of Mary's and his first argument. It had started with Mary spending ten minutes explaining to him that she would understand if he could not move from Baker Street. If he could not suddenly commit to what she was asking of him.

John had in turn accused Mary of having already made up her mind and deliberately pushing the responsibility of what should be a joint decision completely onto him.

That had caused Mary to exclaim that _he_ was the one who had already made up his mind but refused to own up to it and that just because she was being realistic in recognising that prioritising their life together and a family would come at an expense to her career did not mean that she was incapable of wanting to do so. She had accused him of being so afraid of the potential consequences of what he really wanted that he was unable to recognise just what that was himself. John had vehemently denied that, despite the fact that he knew there was truth in what Mary was saying.

Afraid of moving out. Afraid of losing Mary. Afraid of staying. Afraid of Sherlock one day having enough of his current life, leaving London and Britain behind in boredom. Leaving him behind, neither needing nor wanting his presence.

That – having Sherlock one day realise that he did not particularly need his presence – was the first of two fears that John had managed to identify.

That first fear was all Mike Stamford's fault.

_"The world holds nothing but opportunities for a man like Sherlock Holmes. He might one day decide he doesn't feel like missing out on those opportunities. I'm not saying he will, but it's… you know, he is how he is – unpredictable."_

John had, even then at Molly's wedding, been able to hear what Mike was really saying.

_Will it be enough for him? Will you be enough? What happens to you if he decides you're not? Is that a risk you're willing to take?_

The worst thing was, he could see it happen. In the time John had known him, Sherlock had only become cleverer, faster, more assured of himself. And the man had already been larger than life back when they first met. How could Sherlock _not_ one day grow bored with their life together at Baker Street?

If that were to happen, it would be nice having something else in his life. But that was far from sufficient reason. If that was the total sum of his motivation it would be grossly unfair to Mary and she meant far too much to him for John to do that to her.

More than that, however, was another, dirtier fear. His second fear. It was the sludge from the bottom of his being surfacing; dragged up to expose facets of his own character that he found he was unwilling to own up to.

It was the coward in him, nagging for an easy solution. For a socially acceptable solution. For a solution that would make him fit, blend in and merge with the world. A relaxing solution that did not require it to be worked for or explained or defended.

Living out his life with Sherlock would be a lifetime of working and explaining and defending.

Could he do that?

A lifetime of denying? A lifetime of wrong assumptions; of having people assume wrongly and be unable to correct them? Unable to have anyone truly understand? Would he not, essentially, have to assume an identity that was, ultimately, not who he was? It would no longer simply be a matter of what perfect strangers thought or what the damn tabloid papers were implying. It would become a permanent fixture in his life. He would never be able to truly explain, possibly not even to his friends or co-workers or his own sister. Could he really handle that for the rest of his life?

John had always thought he was the 'I'll do whatever the fuck I want and if you can't deal with it, then that's entirely your problem' type. He had prided himself somewhat on that perception of his own character. What he had completely failed to grasp was how much determination and courage actually, truly doing so would require.

It took far more than he could have ever fathomed. It was terrifying.

Sherlock was, by far, the bravest of the two of them. Possibly the bravest person ever. He didn't care what others thought, didn't let social conventions or societies preordained notions of what was and wasn't acceptable stifle him. He had been hurt by that position and lived a somewhat solitary life because of it, John knew that with painful clarity, but he had never budged. Had never changed his stance simply to fit in with what was implicitly expected.

John was not sure he could do that.

Only, when turning it around – could he bear _not _to – the answer was a resounding _no_, which brought him right back to fear number one.

Mary had really hit the nail on the head there. _I need to know that I'm not alone in it_.

He needed to know.

And Sherlock could shove his _'You and I know far more about each other than we've ever explicitly communicated'_ mumbo jumbo where the sun wouldn't shine. He needed to _know_.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" It was a short, annoyed drawl of a reply. He did not want to be disturbed. It was a bad time, John knew it, but damn it, there _was_ no time.

"Would you stay here?"

The clinking of glass paused for a brief moment. "I live here, don't I? Where would I go?"

"With me? Would you… If I were to give – " he took a steadying breath, forcing the words out. "If I were to stay here for the rest of my life, would you… would it be _with_ you? Or would I one day wake up and find you gone because you've grown bored with London or something?"

All sounds stilled in the kitchen, but John did not turn around.

"London?"

"Me."

"You're my friend, John, you know that."

"I know," he sighed heavily. He suddenly felt exhausted beyond anything.

"Then stop asking questions you know the answer to. It's tedious." Sherlock's tone carried none of the bite that the words might suggest. Rather, it was unusually quiet and serious.

John finally tore his eyes away from the fireplace and stood up from his armchair to face Sherlock, only to already find him hovering halfway between the kitchen and living room.

"Does it bother you?" John blurted out without thinking, completely floored by Sherlock's expression. It was a study of not-quite supressed emotions; worry and quiet pain the most easily discernable among them.

"Contrary to what you seem to think I cannot actually read your mind. Do try to make sense."

"That I'm with Mary? Does it bother you?"

Sherlock's eyes instantly narrowed, his whole body shifting subtly. He looked like a viper, suspicious and ready to strike any second.

"What are you really trying to ask?"

"I'm asking you…" Christ, it was difficult. He should just drop it. He already knew the answer. That was the crux of it, though. He no longer knew anything with complete certainty. At least it felt that way.

"What, John? What?" Sherlock demanded sharply, taking a step into the living room. John unconsciously took a step backwards. "Do you – do you _want_ it to bother me?"

"No! I –"

"Then what do you want?"

"You."

The silence was absolute. John knew he needed to elaborate, needed to explain, but the words seemed stuck somewhere in his clenched jaws.

"I want – I don't ever want to have to be without you again. I want to always be a part of your life. I want your trust and I – I want to know that you won't shut me out."

"But you – you already have that."

"Do I?"

"Yes. How can you not know?"

"That's the thing! I don't know! I don't - _I don't know_ _what to do!_"

Annoyance flittered over Sherlock's face, replacing the confusion. "Well 'follow your heart' or some such nonsense! How should I know when you refuse to make any sense?! You _know_ I'm not good at – "

John laughed bitterly, humourlessly, causing Sherlock to fall silent. "Yes, well… do you even want it?"

Heavy confusion clouded Sherlock's face for a long, tense moment before his expression grew completely slack, mouth opening slightly. He looked shocked as he made a wordless, floundering gesture and took a step forward just as a loud crack came from the kitchen, followed by an ominous sizzling sound. Sherlock froze mid-step; eyes flickering back towards the kitchen in alarm, shattering the tense atmosphere in an instant.

"Shit."

The last time Sherlock had cursed at an experiment it had required a team of biohazard specialists and a week's stay at a hotel. Needless to say, Sherlock's sudden alarm was more than enough to push absolutely everything else to the back of John's mind as he hurriedly followed Sherlock into the kitchen.

"It wasn't supposed to do that. It _was not_ supposed to do that."

He watched in slight panic as Sherlock hurriedly cleared half a dozen unlabelled substances in beakers off the kitchen table unto which an angry mass of green foam and fluid was spilling, dripping down unto the floor as it continued to emit a series of sizzling sounds.

"Uh… John? You might want to open the windows. It's uh – slightly toxic," Sherlock instructed, looking distinctly worried.

"How slightly?"

"Uh – "

"_Sherlock!_"

Every single window was opened and the caustic green of the experiment doused with the fire extinguisher. Even so, Sherlock and John ended up needing to take refuge on the stairway, letting the air clear inside the flat.

"Do we need to warn Mrs Hudson?"

"No, no. It should be fine in a bit."

"Good," he said shortly, leaning heavily against the wall. He tried and failed to ignore the scrutinising gaze he could feel Sherlock giving him.

"What's happened?"

"Nothing's happened," he sighed tiredly. He was not cut out for all this heavy emotional turmoil. It was too draining.

"Of course not," Sherlock retorted brusquely. "And when will you stop lying to me?"

"I…" He really should not be surprised. Of course Sherlock would pick up on it. "Time. I need – Can you give me just a little more time?"

Sherlock just looked at him, expression completely void of emotion and yet, somehow, staggering in its intensity. "You can have anything."

How those four words managed to hurt almost as much as visiting Sherlock's grave had once done, John did not entirely know. What he did know was that they broke his heart a little as the full weight of the three years without Sherlock suddenly came crashing back. John wanted nothing more than to crawl underneath Sherlock's skin and curl up and take refuge somewhere inside his chest cavity. In that moment it seemed like the only cure for the pain festering inside him.

"I –" Sherlock spoke again, looking at an indeterminable point above his head. "No matter what, regardless of what else happens, you will always be welcome and I will always trust you."

"Thank you, I –" he swallowed a few times against the constricting lump in his throat only to find that it was not going anywhere. "Thank you."

Sherlock raised one hand as if to reach out towards him, but seemed to change his mind, letting it fall back against his side.

"Let me – about what you asked me just now… For me there is no untangling my life from yours at this point and, with fear of being presumptuous, I believe that trying to do so would be little more than a pointless exercise in hurting us both. I – Staying away was never an option for me. I genuinely thought you knew that." Sherlock was now looking down at the ground, arms crossed protectively over his chest. He looked smaller, somehow, than usual.

John reached out with one hand and rested it against Sherlock's arm for a brief moment before giving a tight nod and retreating (he refused to think of it as fleeing) up the stairs to his bedroom, a burning behind his eyelids as he closed the door softly behind him.

Why did it have to hurt so damn much? John thought tiredly, as he sat down on the edge of his bed, taking a series of deep, measured breaths.

Sherlock's words had – despite the inexplicable, desperate despair that dictated he go back downstairs and physically hold on to Sherlock and never let go – managed to instil a sense of clarity that John, deep down, knew he should probably never have lost in the first place. He was not alone in it. And the risk of maybe one day being was not remotely enough reason to ask Mary to stay in London. Doing so would be horrifically unfair to everyone concerned.

Besides, the brutally honest bottom-line was that he wanted to spend his life with Sherlock. And he didn't just want to do it as he bumbled along. He wanted it to be a conscious, fully acknowledge decision. He wanted it understood that they were never going to go anywhere instead of continuing the whole 'flatmate' charade in which they both silently pretended that they actually, financially still needed one.

He wanted to live at Baker Street not because it was convenient or cheap, but simply because that was where he wanted to be. He wanted to grow old with his best friend.

Talk about an unconventional choice of lifestyle. But then again, there was _nothing_ conventional about Sherlock or the life he led. If John truly wanted to be a part of it – fully and indefinitely – it naturally followed that he needed to embrace that. He already had to a very large extent.

The problem was that he was finding that taking those final steps towards truly abandoning the kind of life he was expected to lead and had thought he would lead were the difficult ones; the ones that required a kind of bravery he was afraid he might not posses.

And he was a little scared and a little sad for what he would essentially be saying no to by telling Mary not to turn down her dream job for him. It was an odd, melancholic sense of loss.

John sought further refuge in his bed and allowed himself to mourn a little for the life he had once imagined but now accepted he would never have.

It was a goodbye to the John Watson that had come to seem like a long dead brother or childhood friend whom he had clung desperately to until this moment. It was only then, in the darkest hour of a cool summer night, that he accepted the full extent of the loss he had sustained by going off to war. It was only then he accepted that the change he had undergone because of Afghanistan was irreversible. Hanging on would not bring the John Watson he had once been back. It was time to stop living the life of a dead man out of fear of forgetting him.

It was time to let go.

* * *

**O**

* * *

John was already running a little late as he came walking from the bathroom into the kitchen and noticed how Sherlock instantly looked up from his stack of morning papers, sharp eyes sweeping over him so fast he was sure it would have been imperceptible to anyone else except Mycroft.

"You're going to see Mary. Highly unconventional activity this time of the day considering her working hours."

"Yeah, there's something I –" The way Sherlock held himself was wrong. Something was off. John did not know how he knew, but he nevertheless did. "What is it?"

Sherlock looked away, nonchalantly turning a page of the paper. "There's quite a lot you're not telling me at the moment and I can only get so far without data."

"Ah." John shifted his weight from one foot to the other, before tentatively siting down at the table across from Sherlock. "Why is Mary different?"

"Because she's good," Sherlock instantly replied, seemingly completely unfazed by the non sequitur. "She would be good for you. She _is_ good for you."

"Unlike you, you mean?"

Sherlock didn't even bat an eye as he turned another page. "Obviously."

"She's been offered a position in America. Boston Children's Hospital. One of the best paediatric hospitals in the world."

That caused Sherlock to look up at him again, his expression betraying that he had not known that. John did not even remotely have it in him to appreciate the fact that he had managed to keep something from Sherlock. Especially not as Sherlock leant back in his chair, becoming completely detached and distant. When he spoke again, after several seconds of quiet, his tone was flat and analytical. "So that's what you've refused to talk about."

"What did you think it was?"

"That you were contemplating moving in together."

"Well, there was that as well," he admitted, struggling somewhat to meet Sherlock's scrutinising gaze.

"Of course. But that was before the job offer," Sherlock stated, folding his hands underneath his chin. "Let me guess, she asked you whether to take the position or remain here in London. The true question being whether or not you are in a committed relationship – commitment in the sense of eventual marriage and family."

"Spot on."

"And she hasn't asked you to move to America with her to her dream job because she knows you wouldn't. She understands our dynamic, at least to a degree. I'd venture to guess she wouldn't even raise a brow at you accompanying me on cases. She hasn't done so far, after all. As I said, she's good. Might even be the best woman I have yet to meet."

"High praise."

Sherlock completely ignored him, everything about him the very picture of neutrality. "You could have everything you ever wanted. A loving marriage to a woman even your most difficult friend finds tolerable, have children while keeping the thrill and danger of the work. It's what I believe people refer to as 'a once in a lifetime opportunity'."

How Sherlock completely managed to omit himself from what he no doubt thought to be an exhaustive list of what he wanted was completely beyond John. Especially given the things he had blurted out only three days ago. He could not bear listening to one more clinically detached word and stood back up so abruptly it caused a look of surprise to flash across Sherlock's face.

"I'm going to tell her to take the position in Boston. Or rather, I'm going to tell her not to stay here because of me."

John was certain he had never seen Sherlock so utterly baffled. Not even by a case or _sentiment_ or the oft-lamented incompetence of the police. It lasted for only a few seconds before Sherlock's face fell into a tired frown.

"This isn't right," he sighed heavily, looking up at John with an unreadable expression. "This isn't how it's done."

"I can't help it. I love you too damn much." It was startlingly easy to say those words. The whole _letting go_ was coming along pretty well, if he had to say so himself.

Sherlock closed his eyes and rested his face in his palms. "Living together might be a contributing factor. It _is _a contributing factor. You know it is."

"It's not one I'm willing to change."

"You should," Sherlock whispered, hands still covering most of his face. John ignored him.

He had his jacket on and was just about to walk through the door when Sherlock spoke again, suddenly standing in the middle of the living room. John had not heard him move.

"I would never hold it against you and it wouldn't change my opinion of you."

"I can't." He couldn't. He really couldn't. Not when he felt the way he did. Not when he knew how much Mary would be giving up for him. She deserved far, far better than that. They all did.

John was halfway to the tube station when Sherlock moved from the spot he had been in since the front door closed at 221B and did not hear the quietly murmured _forgive me_ that flowed out against the walls of their living room. Nor did he know that Sherlock left for the Diogenes thirty minutes later or that one, silent look at Mycroft was all it took for him to know that his brother had kept his word.

* * *

**O**

* * *

It was ten minutes into despondently poking at the full English Mrs Hudson had made that Sherlock looked up from whatever he had been engrossed in on his laptop, giving him an assessing look.

"You're sad."

John was sorely tempted to say 'it's only been five days' but refrained. For Sherlock, who could alternate between deep apathy and ecstatic glee in less than five seconds, a week of mild heartache must seem like forever.

"It'll pass," he said instead. "And probably sooner than what's polite. I _was_ supposed to be in love with her, you know."

Sherlock dropped his gaze and reached out, running the tip of a single finger over his knuckles. "I want you to be happy."

The words were a quiet murmur that made him want to get up and physically shield Sherlock from the rest of the world.

"I am happy."

"You can't both be sad and happy."

"Yes, you can."

Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly. "The two emotions have no chemical reactions in common in the human brain."

_Oh, Sherlock._

"All right. Think of it like this." John leant forward over the table; looking at Sherlock with the expression he had perfected to demand full attention, thank you very much. "I'm usually perfectly healthy, but I've caught a cold. It doesn't prevent me from doing the things I do when healthy. In fact it doesn't much change anything. It just adds a little headache and makes my movements a bit more sluggish, but it'll pass in its own time, as colds do. Do you follow?"

"Oh, please." Sherlock looked affronted by the suggestion that he could not keep up with his simple analogy, but John saw the deeper-lying relief in the caustic roll of his eyes.

John eventually gave up his breakfast – and Sherlock's for that matter – as a lost cause and took the plates to the kitchen, setting about cleaning up the mess left behind by the making of Mrs Hudson's massive fry ups.

It had been five days since Mary had moved permanently to America.

John had seen her off from Heathrow. Neither had made any promises of keeping in constant touch. They both knew that what they were leaving behind could never really be reclaimed. Needless to say, it had been somewhat of a bittersweet goodbye.

_"How many years would it take for us both to grow bitter and petty? How many declined opportunities or missed cases? How many cold dinners and solitary nights?"_

_"I know. I still love you. Aren't we told that is supposed to be enough? That we can have it all if we want? Career and family all in one neat, functional package? No compromises or sacrifices?"_

_"Maybe it is that way for some."_

_"But not for us… God, look at us. We're completely ruined for anyone and anything else by our… vocations." _The last word was meant as a joke but neither of them had laughed.

_"I think we might be."_

_"I really wanted this with you. I still do… God, I want so many different things. Why did it take me this long to realise that life isn't a fairy-tale where I can magically have it all? Why did it take _us_ so long?"_

_"Because we're idiots."_

_"Sherlock?"_

_"Yeah."_

_"He's nothing if not intelligent." _Mary had laughed a little, a solitary tear rolling down her cheek._ "Will you help me? Get everything in order?"_

_"Of course."_

_"I love you, John. I really do."_

_"And I love you. I don't want you to go."_

_"I don't want to leave you behind." _John had been reminded of their second date – the one they had, in mutual understanding, cancelled. It was the exact same scenario, only the stakes had been that much higher the second time around.

A pair of sinewy, strong arms wrapped around him from behind, a cold nose coming to rest against the side of his head. John's heart did an odd little squeeze in response to the unprecedentedly affectionate gesture.

"I do love you."

"I know." That was only an approximation – albeit a very good one – of the truth, but it was the only thing short enough to get past his suddenly clogged throat.

"You deserve more than this."

That hurt. And it was all the more heart-breaking because John knew that Sherlock – despite his demanding, arrogant, insufferable nature – absolutely meant those words. No matter how much they didn't truly hurt, Sherlock still acknowledged every slur and comment made against him. They all registered, shaping Sherlock's view of himself. Of how he anticipated others thought of him.

He turned around in the tight confines of Sherlock's embrace, surprised at the amount of unhappiness he found in the pale eyes.

"Tell me this, Sherlock: In all the time we've known each other – in all the time we haven't – how many people have you met that you could imagine living with like this?"

"Just one."

"I thought so. And I happen to know that that one person is both immensely humbled and extremely grateful. Being trusted, hell, being _tolerated_ by someone as observant and intelligent as you is pretty extraordinary. I wouldn't give that up for anything."

"I told you, you wouldn't have to. I would still – "

"And I told you that I can't. I'm not settling for anything here, Sherlock. I'm not that selfless and you bloody well know it."

"You might hate me for it one day."

"If you go somewhere I can't follow again you can be damned sure I'll hate you, but otherwise you're good."

Sherlock looked at him solemnly, a small frown furrowing his brow as he let his hands come to rest against either side of his face. They were standing so very close. It felt peaceful. Soothing.

"You can have anything. Anything at all." It sounded like a vow.

"In that case you do the Monday shopping from now on."

Sherlock's nose instantly scrunched up in dislike, the shadows retreating from his eyes as his expression changed from one of quiet sorrow to one of indignation. John could not help laughing a little. "Sherlock Holmes. How did it happen that you turned out to be the goddamn love of my life?"

Sherlock laughed as well. It was a soft, affectionate sound that made John's fingers tighten their hold in Sherlock's dressing gown.

"I've absolutely no idea, but I think the Greeks got it right."

John huffed. "Careful now. You're being sentimental."

Sherlock's whole face lit up in a smile, eyes glinting. "Impossible."

_He is beautiful. Through and through._

The thought had barely registered when Sherlock's lips pressed against his forehead for the briefest moment before he stepped back, let his hands fall away and retreated quietly to his laptop.

It was insane. _They_ were insane.

* * *

**O**

* * *

They are back in the kitchen, Sherlock's hands resting against either side of his face.

"Whatever is right for us that's what we will do. The rest of one's life is very long to try and fit something into a pre-fabricated box if it doesn't quite fit, don't you think? Is it not, by far, better to accept things for what they really are, even if that means not having the words to explain?"

"Yes," John agrees.

"And right now, for us, this is enough. This is what we want. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes," he agrees again.

"Good. Then that's how it is going to be and if it should ever change, we'll deal with it at that time. Together. All right?"

"Yes."

"Then stop worrying. It's going to be fine. _We'll _be fine."

"I know."

Sherlock smiles, his whole face lighting up in pure, uncomplicated happiness. The most beautifully human, human being he will ever meet, John thinks, matching Sherlock's expression easily.

* * *

John woke slowly, hanging on to his dream with determination and fondly wondering – while still submerged in that sluggish, half-lucid state between sleep and wakefulness – why Sherlock could not simply be that straightforward in real life.

It was only then he became aware of what had woken him in what felt like the dead of night. There was a hand on his shoulder, jostling him slightly.

"Honestly. _Wake up_, John."

Oh, but he did not want to wake up.

The hand came to curl around his bicep, pulling slightly. "I mean it. Wake up."

John blinked his eyes open to find Sherlock's silhouette crouched down besides his bed. His response was to yawn contentedly and close his eyes again, fully intending to slide back into unconsciousness.

Sherlock chuckled deeply and let his hand rest against the side of his head for a short moment before retreating. The next thing John knew, the lights in his room were turned on and his bed covers yanked off him. He hissed in protest.

"Lestrade is waiting downstairs."

John hurled the paperback from his bedside table at Sherlock just for good measure before getting out of bed, hurriedly putting on some proper clothes before following him.


End file.
